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Photogrephic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STRKST 

WEBSTER,  NY    14580 

(716)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

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Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibllographiques 


Th( 
to 


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D 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
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I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagie 

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Cover  title  missing/ 

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n 


D 
D 
Q 
D 
D 
D 


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Th( 

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of 
flln 


Or! 
be( 
the 
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firs 
sio 
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Th« 
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TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning   "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdihode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

rOPULAll    NOVELS. 


1 


By  May  Agnes  Fleming. 


I. -GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 
II.— A  WONDERFUL  WOJIAN. 
III.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 


"Mrs.  FU.minR'B  Btorioa  aro  RrowinR  more  and  more  popu- 
lar every  <iay.    Their  (lilinciitiiins  of  (.hiinictcr, 
life-like  conversations,  llashesi  of  wit,  cou- 
stantly  voryin^,'  Kccnes,  ami  deeply  in- 
terest int?  pliiti,  Cdinbine  Id  place 
their  author  in  the  very  llrst 
rank  of  Modern 
KovcliatJi." 


All  pablishod  uniform  with  thU  volume.     Price  $1.76 
each,  and  aunt  free  by  mall,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

a.  W.  CAIIXETON  &  CO., 
New  York. 


" 

^ 

A 

Terrible   Secret. 

a    Bobtl. 

n 

BY 

i\ 

MAY  AGNES   FLEMING, 

AUTHOR  Of 

■  0 

"Guv   Earlscourt's  Wtfe,"  "A  Wondurful  Woman,"   "  Norinb   Bour- 

don," ETC. 

GREATER  VICTORIA 

PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

NEW    YORK: 

G.    fF.    Car  let  on    &   Co.,    Publishers. 

LONDON:   S.   LOW,   SON   &  CO., 

M.DCCC.LXXIV. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  Jn  the  year  1874,  by 

G.     W.     CAnLKTON     &    CO., 
In  tho  Office  of  tUo  Libmria.i  of  Congress,  cxt  WoBhington. 


John  F.  Trow  &  Son,  Printf.rs, 
203-213  Kast  12TH  St.,  Nkw  Youk. 
Mnclauchlan,  Sti>rcotyper, 
145  Si  W!  Mulberry  St.,  near  Grand,  N.  Y. 


Vo 


CHRISTIAN    RE  ID, 


AUTHOR  OP 


"V  A  L  Eli  IK     Ayi.MKRr      ETC., 


TOKEN      OF     ADMIRATION     AND     ESTEEM, 


Story     is     pED 


I  CAT  ED, 


MAY   AGNES   FLEMING. 


Urooklvn,    ) 
cptcmber,  1874.  ) 


iiepu 


ClIA 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 
I.- 
II.- 
III.- 

IV.- 

V.- 

VI.- 

VII.- 

VIII.- 

IX.- 

X.- 

XI.- 

XII.- 


PAOE 

Bride  and  Bridegroom  Elect 9 

-Wife  and  Ilcir '8 

-How  Lady  Catheron  came  Home 27 

-"  I'll  not  Believe  but  Desdemona's  Honest  " 32 

-In  the  Twilii^ht 39 

-In  the  Moonli-ht 5° 

-In  the  Nursery S^ 

-In  the  Darkness ^2 

-From  the  "  Chesholm  Courier  " 77 

-From  the  "  Chesholm  Courier  "—Continued 83 

-'•Ring  out  your  Bells!  Let  Mourning  Shows  be  Spread!"  89 

-The  first  Ending  of  the  Tragedy 96 


PART     II 


;o:- 


L--iMiss  Darrell I03 

II, _A  Night  in  the  Snow "5 

HI.— Trixy's  Tarty 127 

1  V._"  Under  tlie  (laslight" 140 

v.—  Old  Copies  of  tlie  «'  Courier  " I48 

VI.— One  Moonlight  Night 159 

VII.— Short  and  Sentimental 17° 

VIII.— In  Two  Boats I?^ 


8 


CONTENTS. 


CnAPl'KR  PAOB 

IX.— Alas  for  Trix 1S7 

X. — How  Trix  took  it 200 

XI. — How  Lady  Helena  took  it 207 

XII.— On  St.  Partricli,'c  Day 215 

XIII. — How  Charley  took  it 222 

XIV. — To-morrow 231 

XV.— Lady  Helena's  I3all 244 

XVI.— "O  My  Cousin  Shallow-hearted  1 " 250 

XVII.—"  Forever  and  Ever  " 257 

XVII I.— The  Summons 268 

XIX. — At  Poplar  Lodge 279 

XX. — How  the  Weddin[.j-day  IJcgan 2S7 

XXL— How  the  Wedding-day  Ended 294 

XXII.— The  Day  After 300 

XXIIL— The  Second  Ending  of  the  Tragedy 310 


PART    m. 


-:o:- 


I. — At  Madame  Mirebeau's,  Oxford  Street 320 

II.— Edith 330 

III How  they  Met 341 

IV. — How  they  Parted 347 

v.— The  Telling  of  the  Secret 353 

VI. — The  last  Ending  of  the  Tragedy 365 

VII. — Two  Years  After 373 

VIII. — Forgiven  or — Forgotten  ? 37S 

IX.  — Saying  Good-by 383 

X. — The  Second  Bridal 393 

XL— The  Night 401 

XII. — The  Morning 405 


A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 


CHAPTER  I. 


BRIDK   AND   URIDEGROOM   ELECT. 


IRF.LIGMT  falling  on  soft  velvet  carpet,  where 
while  lily  buds  trail  along  azure  ground,  on 
chairs  of  white-polished  wood  that  glitters  like  ivory, 
with  i)uffy  of  seats  of  blue  satin  ;  on  blue  and  gilt 
l)an(.-lled  walls;  on  a  wonderfully  carved  oaken  ceiling;  on 
sweeping  drajjcries  of  blue  satin  and  white  lace  ;  on  h.df  a 
dozen  lovely  pictures  ;  on  an  open  piano  ;  and  last  of  all, 
on  the  handsome,  angry  face  of  a  girl  who  stands  before  it 
— Inez  Calheron. 

The  month  is  August — the  day  the  29th — Miss  Catheron 
has  good  reason  to  remember  it  to  the  last  day  of  her  life. 
15ut,  whether  the  August  sun  blazes,  or  tiie  January  winds 
howl,  the  great  rooms  of  Catheron  Royals  are  ever  chilly. 
So  on  the  white-tiled  heardi  of  the  blue  drawing-room  this 
summer  evening  a  coal  fire  llickers  and  falls,  and  the  mis- 
tress of  Catheron  Royals  stands  before  it,  an  angry  Ikisli 
burning  dee;)  red  on  either  dusk  cheek,  an  angry  frown  con- 
tracting her  straight  black  brows. 

Tiic  mistress  of  Catiieron  Royals, — llie  biggest,  oldest, 
(lueerest.  grandest  place  in  all  siuiny  Cheshire, — this  slim,  dark 
girl  of  nineteen,  for  three  years  past  the  bride-elect  of  Sir 
Victor  Catheron,  baronet,  the  last  of  his  Saxon  race  and 
name,  the  lord  of  all  these  sunny  acres,  this  noble  Norman 
pile,  the  smiling  village  of  Catheron  below.     The  master  of 


10 


BRIDE  AND  BRIDEGROOM  ELECT. 


a  stately  park  in  Devon,  a  moor  and  "  bothy  "  in  the  Iiigh- 
laiuls,  a  villa  on  tlic  A  mo,  a  gem  of  a  cottage  in  the  Isle  of 
Wiglit.  "  A  (larhng  of  the  gods,"  young,  handsome,  healthy  ; 
and  best  of  all,  with  twenty  thousand  a  year. 

She  is  his  bride-elect.  In  her  dark  way  siie  is  very  hand- 
some. She  is  to  be  married  to  Sir  Victor  early  in  the  ne.\t 
month,  and  .she  is  as  much  in  love  with  him  as  it  is  at  all  |)ossi- 
ble  to  be.  A  fair  fafesnrely.  And  yet  while  the  Aii;4iist  nij;lit 
shuts  down  while  the  wind  whistles  in  the  trees,  while  the  long 
fmg(!rs  oi  the  elm,  just  outside  the  window,  tap  in  a  ghustly 
way  on  the  pane,  she  stands  here,  (lushed,  angry,  impatient, 
and  sullen,  her  handsome  lips  set  in  a  tight,  rigid  line. 

She  is  very  dark  at  all  times.  Her  cousin  Victor  tells 
her,  laughingly,  she  is  an  absolute  nigger  when  in  one  of  her 
silent  rages.  She  has  jet-black  hair,  and  big,  brilliant,  S[)anish 
eyes.  She  is  Spanish.  Her  dead  mother  was  a  Castilian, 
and  that  mother  has  left  her  her  Spanish  name,  her  beautiful, 
])assionate  Spanish  eyes,  her  hot,  passionate  Si)anish  heart. 
In  Old  Castile  Inez  was  born  ;  and  when  in  her  tenth 
year  her  English  father  followed  his  wife  to  the  grave,  Inez 
came  home  to  Catheron  Royals,  to  reign  there,  a  little,  im- 
perious, hot-tempered  Morisco  princess  ever  since. 

She  did  not  come  alone.  A  big  boy  of  twelve,  with  a 
shock  head  of  blue-black  hair,  two  wild,  glittering  black 
eyes,  and  a  diabolically  handsome  face,  came  with  her.  It 
was  her  only  brother  Juan,  an  in)p  incarnate  from  his  cra- 
dle. He  did  not  remain  long.  To  the  unspeakable  relief 
of  the  neighborhood  for  miles  around,  he  had  vanished  as 
suddenly  as  he  had  come,  and  for  years  was  seen  no 
more. 

A  Moorish  Princess !  It  is  her  cousin  and  lover's  favorite 
name  for  her,  and  it  fits  well.  There  is  a  certain  barbaric 
splendor  about  her  as  she  stands  here  in  the  lireliglu,  in  her 
trailing  purple  silk,  in  the  cross  of  rubies  and  fine  gold  that 
burns  on  her  bosom,  in  the  yellow,  perfumy  rose  in  her  hair, 
looking  stately,  and  beautiful,  and  dreadfully  out  of  temper. 

The  big,  lonesome  house  is  as  still  as  a  tomb.  Outside  the 
wind  is  rising,  and  the  heavy  patter,  patter,  of  the  rain-beats 
on  the  glass.  That,  and  the  light  fall  of  the  cinders  in  the 
polished  grate,  are  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard. 

A  clock  on  the  mantel  strikes  seven.     She  has  not  stirred 


BRIDE  AND  liRIDEG/iOOiM  ELECT. 


II 


for  ncarl)'  an  hour,  hut  she  looks  uj)  now,  her  black  eyes 
full  of  passionate  ;ingjr,  passionate  inipatic-nce. 

"Seven  !"  she  says,  in  a  suppressed  sort  of  voice;  "and 
ho  should  have  been  here  at  six.  What  if  he  should  defy 
me? — what  if  he  does  not  come  after  all  ?" 

She  can  remain  still  no  longer.  She  wa"-'^  across  the 
room,  and  she  walks  as  only  Spani>h  women  1o.  She 
draws  hack  one  of  the  window  curtains,  ami  leaa.j  out  into - 
the  niiiht.  The  crushed  sweetness  of  the  raiu-heaten  roses 
tloats  up  to  her  in  the  wet  darkness.  Ni»tliing  to  be  s"en 
but  the  vague  tossing  of  the  trees,  nothing  to  be  heard  but 
the  .soughing  of  the  wind,  nothing  to  be  felt  but  the  f.ist  and 
still  faster  failing  of  tiie  rain. 

She  lets  the  curtain  fall,  and  returns  to  the  fnc. 

"  Will  he  dare  defy  me  ?  "  she  whispers  to  herself  "  Will 
he  dare  stay  away  ?  " 

There  are  two  pictures  hanging  ovei  the  mantel — she 
looks  uj)  at  them  as  she  asks  the  ipiestion.  One  is  the  sweet, 
patient  face  of  a  woman  of  thirty  ;  the  other,  the  smiling 
face  of  a  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  good-looking  lad.  It  is  a 
very  pleasant  face  ;  the  blue  eyes  look  at  you  so  brightly,  so 
frankly  ;  the  boyish  mouth  is  so  sweet-tempered  and  laugh- 
ing that  you  smile  back  and  fall  in  love  with  him  at  sight, 
it  is  Sir  Victor  Catheron  and  his  late  mother. 

Miss  Inez  C'at heron  is  in  many  respects  an  extraordinary 
young  lady — Cheshire  society  has  long  ago  decideil  that. 
They  would  have  been  more  convinced  of  i^  than  ever,  could 
they  have  seen  her  turn  now  to  Latly  Catheron's  portrait  and 
appeal  to  it  aloud  in  imi)assioned  words  : 

"  On  his  knees,  by  your  dying  bed,  by  your  dying  com- 
mand, he  vowed  {o  love  and  cherish  me  always — as  he  did 
then.  Let  him  take  care  how  he  liilles  with  that  vow — let 
him  take  care  !  " 

She  lifts  one  hand  (on  which  rubles  and  diamonds  Hash) 
menacingly,  then  stops.  Over  the  s\vee|)  oi  the  storm,  the 
rush  of  the  rain,  comes  another  sound — a  sound  she  has 
been  listening  for,  longing  for,  i)r.aying  for — the  rapid  roll  of 
carriage  wheels  up  the  drive.  There  can  be  but  one  visitor 
to  Catheron  Royals  to-night,  at  this  liour  and  in  this  storm — 
its  master. 

She  stands  still  as  a  stone,  white  as  a  statue,  waili/ig.     She 


12 


BRIDE  AND  BRIDEGROOM  ELECT. 


loves  him  ;  she  has  hungered  and  thirsted  for  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  the  sight  of  his  face,  the  clasp  of  his  hand,  all 
.  these  weary,  lonely  niontiis.  In  some  way  it  is  her  life  or 
death  she  is  to  take  from  his  hands  to-night.  And  now  he  is 
here. 

She  hears  the  great  hall-door  open  and  close  with  a  clang  ; 
she  hears  the  step  of  the  master  in  the  hall — a  (juick,  assured 
tread  she  would  know  among  a  thousand  ;  she  hears  a  voice 
— a  hearty,  pleasant,  manly,  English  voice  ;  a  cheery  laugh 
she  remembers  well. 

"  The  Chief  of  Lara  has  returned  again." 

The  quick,  excitable  blood  leajjs  up  from  her  heart  to  her 
face  in  a  rosy  rush  that  makes  her  lovely.  The  eyes  light, 
the  lii)s  part — she  lakes  a  stej)  forward,  all  anger,  all  fear, 
all  neglect  forgotten — a  girl  in  love  going  to  meet  her  lover. 
The  door  is  llung  wide  by  an  impetuous  hand,  and  wet  and 
splashed,  and  tall  and  smiling,  Sir  Victor  Cathercn  stantls 
before  her. 

"  iMy  dearest  Inez!" 

He  comes  forward,  jnits  his  arm  around  her,  and  touches 
his  blonde  mustache  to  her  flushed  cheek. 

"  i\Iy  dearest  co/,  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you  again,  and 
looking  so  uncommonly  well  too."  He  puts  up  his  eye- 
glass to  make  sure  of  this  fact,  then  dro[)s  it.  "  (Jncom- 
nioniy  well,"  lie  repeats  ;  "  give  you  my  word  I  never  s:uv 
you  looking  half  a  cjuarter  so  handsome  before  in  my  life. 
Ah  !  why  can't  we  all  be  Moorish  princesses,  and  wear  pur- 
ple silks  and  yellow  roses  ?  " 

He  llings  himself  into  an  easy-chair  before  the  fire,  throws 
back  his  blonde  head,  and  stretches  forth  his  boots  to  ihe 
blaze. 

"An  hour  after  time,  am  J  not  ?  But  blame  the  railw.'y 
l)eople — uon't  blame  vie.  Beastly  sort  of  weather  for  the 
last  week  of  August — cold  as  Iceland  and  raining  cats  and 
dogs  ;  the  very  ilickens  of  a  storm,  I  can  tell  you." 

He  give  the  fire  a  poke,  the  light  leaps  up  and  illumines 
his  liantlsome  face.  He  is  very  like  his  i)icture — a  little 
older— a  little  worn-looking,  and  with  man's  "  crowning 
glory,"  a  mustache.  The  girl  has  moved  a  little  away  from 
him,  the  flush  of  "  beauty's  bright  transcient  glow"  has  died 


BRIDE  AND   BRIDEGROOM  ELECT. 


13 


)iin(l  of 

md,  all 

life  or 

\v  lie  is 


llniuines 
-a  little 


out  of  her  face,  the  hard,  angry  look  has  come  back.  That 
careless  kiss,  that  easy,  cousinly  embrace,  ha\  told  their 
story.  A  moment  ago  her  heart  beat  high  with  ho[)e — to 
the  (lay  of  her  death  it  never  beat  like  that  again. 

He  doesn't  look  at  her  ;  lie  gazes  at  the  hre  instead,  and 
talks  wuh  the  hurry  of  a  nervous  man.  The  handsome  fiice 
is  a  very  effeminate  face,  and  not  even  the  light,  carefully 
trained,  carefully  waxed  mustache  can  hide  the  weak,  irreso- 
lute moiuh,  the  delicate,  characterless  chin.  While  he  talks 
carelessly  and  quickly,  while  his  slim  white  fingers  loop  and 
unloop  his  watch-chain,  in  the  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire 
there  is  an  uneasy  look  of  nervous  fear.  And  into  the 
keepuig  of  this  man  the  girl  with  the  dark,  powerful  face 
has  given  her  heart,  her  fate! 

"  It  seems  no  end  good  to  l)e  at  home  again,"  Sir  Victor 
Catheron  says,  as  if  afraid  of  that  brief  pause.  "You've  no 
idea,  Inez,  how  uncommonly  familiar  antl  jolly  this  blue  room, 
this  red  lire,  looked  a  monieui  ago,  as  I  stepped  out  of  the 
darkness  and  rain.  It  brings  back  the  old  times— this  used 
to  be  licr  favorite  morning-room,"  he  glanced  at  the  mother's 
picture,  "and  siunuier  and  winter  a  fire  always:  burned  here, 
as  now.  And  you,  Inez,  cara  mia,  with  your  gyi)sy  face, 
most  fimiliar  of  all." 

She  moves  over  to  the  mantel.  It  is  very  low  ;  she 
leanes  one  arm  upon  it,  looks  steadily  at  him,  and  speaks  at 


last. 


"  I  am  glad  Sir  Victor  Catheron  can  remember  the  old 
times,  can  still  recall  his  mother,  has  a  '^l'";ht  regard  left  for 
Catheron  Royals,  and  am  humbly  grat^.ul  for  his  recollec- 


tion of  his  gypsy  cousin. 


l''iom  his  conduct  of  late  it  was 


hardly  to  have  been  expected." 

"  It  is  coming,"  thinks  Sir  N'ictor,  with  an  inward  groan  ; 
"and,  O  I-ord  !  -a'/uit  a  row  it  is  going  to  be.  When  Inez 
shuts  her  lips  up  in  that  tight  line,  and  snai)s  her  black  eyes 
in  tint  unpleasant  way,  I  know  to  my  cost,  it  means  'war  to 


the    kmte. 


I'll    be  routei 


wi 


th 


cireat 


Iful 


■.laujhter, 


ant 


I  i !;.'/.  S  I 
goes!" 


notto  is  ever,   "  Woe  to  the  conquer 


or 


I ' 


I 
Well,  here 


Me  looks  up  at  her,  a  good-humored  smile  on  his  good- 
looking  face. 

"  Humbly  grateful    for   my    recollection   of  you  I      My 


14 


BRIDE  AND  BRIDEGROOM  ELECT. 


dear  Inez,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.     As  for  my  ab- 
sence— " 

"  As  for  your  absence,"  slic  interrupts,  "  you  were  to  have 
been  here,  if  your  memory  will  serve  you,  on  the  first  of 
June.  It  is  now  the  close  of  August.  Every  day  of  that 
absence  has  been  an  added  insult  to  me.  Even  now  you 
would  not  have  been  here  if  I  had  not  written  y(ni  a  letter 
you  dare  not  neglect — sent  a  command  you  dare  nottlis-^ 
obey.  You  are  here  to-night  because  you  dare  not  stay 
away." 

Some  of  the  bold  blood  of  the  stern  old  Saxon  race  from 
which  he  sjirung  is  in  his  veins  still,  lie  looks  at  her  full, 
still  smiling. 

"Dare  not!"  he  rejreats.  "You  use  strong  language, 
Inez.  I'ut  then  \oii  have  an  excitable  sort  of  nature,  and 
were  ever  inclined  to  hvperbole  ;  and  it  is  a  lady's  jjrivilege 
to  talk." 

"  And  a  man's  to  ac:t.  l!nt  I  begin  to  think  Sir  Victor 
Cathcron  is  something  less  than  a  man.  'J'Ik;  Catheron 
blood  has  bred  many  an  outlaw,  many  bitter,  bad  men,  but 
to  day  I  begin  to  think  it  has  bred  something  infinitely 
worse — a  traitor  and  a  coward  !  " 

He  half  springs  up,  his  eyes  llashing,  fhen  falls  back,  looks 
at  the  lire  again,  and  laughs. 

"  Meaning  me  ?  " 

"  Meaning  you." 

"  Strong  language  once  more — you  assert  your  ])reroga- 
tive  royally,  my  handsome  cousin.  l''rom  whom  diil  y^ni 
inlierit  that  two-edged  tongue  of  yours,  Inez,  I  wondrr  ? 
Yoiu'  Castilian  mother,  smely  ;  the  women  of  oiu-  house 
were  riever  shrews.  And  even  vcw,  niy  dear,  may  go  a  little 
too  far.  Will  you  drop  vituperation  and  explain?  How 
have  I  been  traitor  and  coward?  It  is  well  we  should  ini- 
derstand  each  other  ful'y." 

He  has  grown  |)ale,  though  he  speaks  (|uietly,  and  his 
blue  eyes  gleam  dangerously.  He  is  always  (piiet  when  most 
angry. 

"It  is.  And  we  shall  understand  each  other  fully  befue 
we  part— be  very  sure  of  that.  \'ou  shall  h  arn  what  I  have 
inherited    from    my    Castilian    mother.       You  shall    learn 


BRIDE  AND  BRIDEGROOM  ELECT. 


15 


whether  you  are  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  me  at  your  sov- 
ereign wiU.  Does  your  excellent  memory  still  servo  you,  or 
must  1  tell  you  what  clay  the  twenty-third  of  September  is 
to  be?"  ' 

He  looks  up  at  her,  still  pale,  that  smile  on  his  lips,  that 
gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"  My  memory  serves  me  perfectly,"  he  answers  coolly  ; 
"  it  was  to  have  been  our  wedding-day." 

Was  to  have  been.  As  he  speaks  the  words  coldly,  almost 
cruelly,  as  she  looks  in  his  f:ice,  the  last  trace  of  color  leaves 
her  own.  The  hot  fire  dies  out  of  her  eyes,  an  awful  terror 
comes  in  its  place.  WiUi  all  her  heart,  all  her  strength,  she 
loves  the  man  she  so  bitterly  reproaches.  It  seems  to  her 
she  can  look  back  upon  no  time  in  which  her  love  for  hina 
is  not. 

And  now,  it  was  to  have  been  ! 

She  turns  so  ghastly  that  ho  springs  to  his  feet  in  alarm. 

"Good  Heaven,  Inez!  you're  not  going  to  faint,  are 
you  ?  Don't !  Here,  take  my  chair,  and  for  pity's  sake  don't 
look  like  that.  I'm  a  wretch,  a  brute — what  was  it  I  said? 
Do  sit  down." 

He  has  taken  her  in  his  arms.  In  the  days  that  are  gone 
he  has  been  very  fond,  and  a  little  afraid  of  his  gipsy  cousin. 
He  is  afraid  still — horribly  afraid,  if  the  trudi  must  be  told, 
now  that  his  momentary  anger  is  gone. 

All  the  scorn,  all  the  defiance  lias  died  out  of  her  voice 
when  she  speaks  again.  The  great,  solemn  eyes  transtix 
him  with  a  look  he  cannot  meet. 

"  Was  to  have  been"  she  repeats,  in  a  sort  of  whisper  ; 
"was  to  have  been.  Victor,  does  that  mean  it  never  is 
to  be?" 

Ill"  turns  away,  shame,  remorse,  fear  in  his  averted  face. 
He  holds  the  back  of  the  chair  with  one  hand,  she  clings  to 
the  other  as  though  it  held  her  last  hope  in  life. 

"Take  time,"  she  says,  in  the  same  slow,  whispering  way. 
"  I  can  wait.  1  have  waited  so  long,  what  does  a  few  min- 
utes more  matter  now?  IJut  think  well  before  you  speak — 
tliere  is  more  at  stake  than  you  know  of  My  whole  future 
life  hangs  on  your  words.  A  woman's  life.  Have  you  ever 
thought  what  that  imi)lies?  '  Was  to  have  been,'  you  said. 
Does  that  mean  it  never  is  to  be  ?" 


16 


BRIDE  AND   BRIDEGROOM  ELECT. 


Still  no  reply.  lie  hoUls  the  back  of  the  chair,  his  face 
averted,  a  criminal  before  his  judge, 

"And  wiiile  you  think,"  she  goes  on,  in  that  slow,  sweet 
voice,  "  let  nie  recall  the  past.  Do  you  remember,  Victor, 
the  day  when  I  and  Juan  came  here  from  Spain  ?  Do  you 
remember  me  ?  I  recall  you  as  plainly  at  this  moment  as 
though  it  were  but  yesterday — a  little,  flaxen-haired,  blue- 
eyed  boy  in  violet  velvet,  unlike  any  child  1  had  ever  seen 
before.  1  saw  a  woman  with  a  face  like  an  angel,  who  took 
me  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  me,  and  cried  over  me,  for  my 
father's  sake.  We  grew  up  togetlier,  Victor,  you  and  I, 
such  happy,  happy  years,  and  I  was  sixteen,  you  twenty. 
And  all  that  time  you  had  my  whole  heart.  Then  came  our 
first  great  sorrow,  your  mother's  dealii." 

She  pauses  a  moment.  Still  he  stands  silent,  but  his  left 
hand  has  gone  up  and  covers  his  face. 

'•  You  remember  that  last  night,  Victor — the  night  she 
died.  No  need  to  ask  you ;  whatever  you  may  forget,  you 
are  not  likely  to  forget  that.  \V^e  knelt  together  by  her  bed- 
side. It  was  as  this  is,  a  stormy  summer  night.  Outside, 
the  rain  beat  and  the  wind  blew  ;  inside,  the  stillness  of 
death  was  everywhere.  We  knelt  alone  in  the  dimly-lit 
room,  side  by  side,  to  receive  her  last  blessing — her  dying 
wish.  Victor,  n\v  cousin,  do  you  recall  what  that  wish 
was  ?  " 

She  holds  out  her  arms  to  him,  all  her  heart  breaking  forth 
in  the  cry.     liut  he  will  neither  look  nor  stir. 

"  With  her  dying  hands  she  joined  ours,  her  dying  eves 
looking  at  you.  With  her  dying  lips  she  spoke  to  you  :  '  Inez- 
is  dearer  to  me  than  all  the  world,  Victor,  except  you.  She 
mu  it  never  flice  tlie  world  alone.  My  son,  you  love  her — 
l)romise  uie  you  will  cherish  and  protect  her  always.  She 
loves  you  as  no  one  else  ever  will,  rromise  me,  Vlctcjr, 
that  in  three  years  from  to-night  you  will  make  her  your 
wife.'  These  were  her  words.  And  you  took  her  hand, 
covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses,  and  promised. 

"  We  buried  hi.'r,"  Inez  went  on,  "and  we  parted.  You 
went  up  to  Oxtbrd  ;  1  went  over  to  a  I'aris  pcnsioiuiat.  In 
the  hour  of  our  parting  we  went  up  together  haml  in  hand 
to  her  room.  We  kissed  the  pillow  where  her  dying  head 
had  lain  ;  we  knelt  by  her  bedoide  as  we  had  done  that  other 


BRIDE  AND  BRIDEGROOM  ELECT. 


17 


night.  You  placed  this  ring  upon  my  finger ;  sleeping  or 
waking  it  has  never  left  it  since,  and  you  repeated  your  vow, 
t)iat  that  night  three  years,  on  the  twenty-third  of  September, 
I  should  be  your  wife." 

She  lifts  the   betrothal  ring    to  her  lips,  and    kisses  it." 
"Dear  litde  ring,"  she  says  softly,   "it  has  been  my  one; 
comfort  all  these  years.     Though  all  your  coldness,  all  your 
neglect  for  the  last  year  and  a  half,  I  have  looked  at  it,  and 
known  you  would  never  break  your  plighted  word  to  the 
livint^  and  the  dead. 

"  1  came  home  from  school  a  year  ago.  You  were  not 
here  to  meet  arid  welcome  me.  You  never  came.  You 
fixed  the  hrst  of  June  for  your  coming,  and  you  broke  your 
word.  Do  1  tire  you  with  all  these  details,  Victor?  15ut  I 
must  speak  to-niglu.  It  will  be  for  the  last  time — you  will 
never  give  me  cause  again.  Of  the  whispered  slanders  that 
have  reached  me  1  do  not  speak  ;  1  do  not  believe  them. 
"Weak  you  may  be,  fickle  you  may  be,  but  you  aie  a  gentle- 
man of  loyal  race  and  blood  ;  you  will  kee[)  your  ph-.ucd 
troth.  Oh,  forgive  me,  Victor  I  Why  do  you  make  me  say 
such  things  to  you  ?  1  hate  myself  for  them,  but  your  neg- 
lect has  driven  me  nearly  wild.  What  have  1  done?" 
Again  she  stretclies  forth  her  hands  in  eloquent  appeal. 
"  See  !  1  love  yon.  What  more  can  I  say  ?  1  forgive  all 
the  past ;  1  ask  no  (jucstions.  I  believe  nothing  of  the 
horrible  stories  they  try  to  tell  me.  Only  come  back  tome. 
If  I  lose  you  I  shall  die." 

Her  face  is  transfigured  as  she  speaks — her  hands  still 
stretched  out. 

"  O  Victor,  come  I "  she  says  ;  "  let  the  past  be  dead  and 
forgotten.     My  darling,  come  back  !" 

iUit  he  shrinks  away  as  those  soft  hands  touch  him,  and 
pushes  her  off. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  he  cries  ;  "  don't  touch  me,  Inez  !  It  can 
never  be.     You  don't  know  what  you  ask  !  " 

Ht:  stands  confronting  her  now,  pale  as  herself,  vith  eyes 
alight.     She  recoils  like  one  who  has  received  a  blow. 

"  {.'an  never  be  ?  "  she  repeats. 

"  Can  never  be  I  "  he  answers.  "  I  am  what  you  have 
called  me,  Inez,  a  traitor  and  a  coward.  I  stand  here  per- 
jured before  God,  and  you,  and  my  dead  mother.     It  can 


I8 


WIFE  AND  HEIR. 


never  be.  I  can  never  rnarry  you.  I  am  married  al- 
ready ! " 

Tlie  blow  has  fallen — the  horrible,  brutal  blow.  She 
stands  looking  at  him — siie  hardly  seems  to  comi)rchend. 
There  is  a  pause — the  lirelight  ilicliers,  they  hear  the  rain 
lashing  the  windows,  the  soughing  of  the  gale  in  the  trees. 
'J'hen  Victor  Calheron  bursts  ibrlli  : 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me — -it  is  past  all  that.  1 
make  no  excuse  ;  the  deed  is  done.  I  met  her,  and  I  loved 
her.  She  has  been  my  wife  for  sixteen  months,  and — there 
is  a  son.  Inez,  don't  look  at  me  like  that !  I  am  a  scoun- 
drel, I  know,  but — " 

He  br:aks  down — the  sight  of  her  face  unmans  him.  He 
turns  away,  his  heart  beating  horribly  thick.  How  long  the 
ghastly  pause  that  follows  lasts  he  never  knows — a  century, 
counting  by  what  he  undergoes.  Once,  during  that  pause, 
he  sees  her  fixed  eyes  turn  slowly  to  his  mother's  picture — 
he  hears  low,  strange-sounding  words  drop  from  her 
lips : 

"  He  swore  by  your  dving  bed,  and  see  how  he  keeps  his 
oath  !" 

Then  the  life  that  seems  to  have  died  from  her  face  flames 
back.  Without  speaking  to  him,  without  looking  at  him, 
she  turns  to  leave  the  room.  On  the  threshold  she  pauses 
and  looks  back. 

"  A  wife  and  a  son,"  she  says,  slowly  and  distinctly.  *'  Sir 
Victor  Catheron,  fetch  them  home ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
them." 


CHAPTER  H. 


WIFE   AND    HEIR. 


^N  a  very  genteel  lodging-house,  in  the  very  genteel 
neighboihood  of  Russell  Square,  early  in  the  after- 
noon of  a  September  day,  a  young  girl  stands  im- 
patiently awaiting  the  return  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron. 


This  girl  is  his  wite. 


It  is  a  bright,  sunny  day — as  sunny,  at  least,  as  a  London 


id  al- 


WIFE  AND  HEIR. 


19 


day  ever  can  make  up  its  mind  to  be — and  as  the  yellow, 
slanting  rays  pour  in  tiirough  the  muslin  curtains  full  on  face 
and  figure,  you  may  search  and  find  no  flaw  in  either.  It 
is  a  very  lovely  face,  a  very  graceful,  though  petite  ligure. 
She  is  a  blonde  of  the  blondest  type  :  her  hair  is  like  spun 
gold,  and,  wonderful  to  relate,  no  Yellow  Wash  :  no  (lol- 
den  Fluid,  has  ever  touched  its  shining  abundance.  Her 
eyes  are  bluer  than  the  September  sky  over  the  Russell 
Square  chimney-pots  ;  her  nose  is  neither  aquiline  nor  Gre- 
cian, but  it  is  very  nice  ;  her  forehead  is  low,  her  mouth  and 
chin  "  morsels  for  the  gods."  The  little  figure  is  deliciously 
rounded  and  ripe  ;  in  twenty  years  from  now  she  may  be  a 
heavy  Britisli  matron,  with  a  yard  and  a  half  vvid  waist — 
at  eigliteen  years  old  she  is,  in  one  word,  perfection. 

Her  dress  is  perfection  also.  She  wears  a  white  India 
muslin,  a  marvel  of  delicate  embroidery  and  exquisite  text- 
ure, and  a  great  deal  of  Valenciennes  trimming.  She  has 
a  pearl  and  tui![  loise  star  fasteniiv;  her  lace  collar,  pearl  and 
turquois  drops  i;i  her  ears,  and  a  half  dozen  diamond  rings 
on  her  plump,  boneless  fingers.  A  blue  ribbon  knots  up  the 
loose  yellow  h..;r,  and  you  may  search  the  big  city  from  end 
to  end,  and  fiii.l  nothing  fairer,  fresher,  sweeter  than  Ethel, 
Lady  Catheron. 

If  ever  a  gentleman  and  a  baronet  had  a  fair  and  sufficient 
excuse  for  the  folly  of  a  low  marriage,  surely  Sir  Victor 
Catheron  has  it  in  this  fairy  wife — for  it  is  a  "  low  marriage" 
of  the  most  heinous  type.  Just  seventeen  months  ago, 
sauntering  idly  along  the  summer  sands,  looking  listlessly  at 
the  summer  sea,  thinking  drearily  that  this  time  next  yea,r 
his  freedom  would  be  over,  and  his  Cousin  Inez  his  lawful 
owner  and  iwssessor,  his  eyes  had  fallen  on  that  lovely 
blonde  face — that  wealth  of  shining  hair,  and  for  all  time — 
aye,  for  eternity — his  fate  was  fixed.  The  dark  image  of 
Inez  as  his  wife  faded  out  of  his  mind,  never  to  return 
more. 

The  earthly  name  of  this  dazzling  divinity  in  yellow  ring- 
lets and  pink  muslin  was  Ethel  Margaretta — Dobb  ! 

Dobb!  It  might  have  disenchanted  a  less  rajilurous 
adorer — it  fell  powerless  on  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  infatuated 
ear. 

It  was  at  Margate  this  meeting  took  place — that  most 


20 


WIFE  AND  HEIR. 


popular  and  most  vulgar  of  all  Knglish  watering-places  ',  and 
the  Cheshire  baronet  had  looked  just  once  at  the  ])each- 
bloom  face,  the  blue  eyes  of  laughing  light,  the  blusliiiig, 
dinii>ling,  seventeen-year-old  Hice,  and  fallen  in  love  at  once 
and  forever. 

He  was  a  very  impetuous  young  man,  a  very  selfish  and 
unstable  yowng  man,  witli  whom,  all  his  life,  to  wish  was  lo 
have.  He  iiad  been  spoiled  by  a  doling  mother  from  his 
cradle,  spoiled  by  obsequious  servants,  spoiled  by  Inez 
Catheron's  boundless  worship.  And  he  wished  for  this 
"rose  of  the  rose-bud  garden  of  girls"  as  he  had  iiever 
wished  for  anything  in  his  two-and-twenty  years  of  life.  As 
a  man  in  a  dream  he  went  through  that  magic  ceremony, 
"  Miss  Dobb,  allow  me  to  present  my  friend,  Sir  Victor 
Catheron,"  and  they  were  free  to  look  at  each  other,  talk  to 
each  other,  fall  in  love  with  each  other  as  nuu:h  as  they 
l>leased.  As  in  a  dream  he  lingered  by  her  side  three  gol- 
den hours,  as  in  a  dream  he  said,  "Good  afternoon,"  and 
walked  back  to  his  hotel  smoking  a  cigar,  the  world  glorified 
above  and  about  him.  As  in  a  dream  they  told  him  she  was 
the  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  a  well-to-do  London  soap- 
boiler, and  he  did  not  wake. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  soap-boiler.  The  paternal 
manufactory  was  in  the  grimiest  ipart  of  the  grimy  metropo- 
lis ;  but,  remarkable  to  say,  she  had  as  much  innate  i)ridi..-, 
self-respect,  and  delicacy  as  though  "all  the  blood  of  all  the 
Howards  "  flowed  in  those  blue  veins. 

He  wasn't  a  bad  sort  of  young  fellow,  as  young  fellows 
go,  and  frantically  in  love.  There  was  but  one  question  to 
ask,  just  eight  days  after  this — "  Will  you  be  my  wife  ?  " — 
but  one  answer,  of  course — "  Yes." 

But  one  answer,  of  course  !  How  would  it  be  possible 
for  a  soap-boiler's  daughter  to  refuse  a  baronet  ?  And  yet 
his  heart  had  beaten  with  a  fear  that  turned  him  dizzy  and 
sick  as  he  asked  it ;  for  she  had  shrunk  away  for  one  in 
stant,  frightened  by  his  fiery  wooing,  and  the  sweet  face  had 
grown  suddenly  and  startlingly  pale.  Is  it  not  the  rule  tluii 
all  maidens  shall  blush  when  their  lovers  ask  tlie  question  of 
questions  ? 

The  rosy  briglitness,  the  smiles,  the  dimples,  all  faded  out 
of  this  face,  and  a  white  look  of  sudden  fear  crossed  it. 


WIFE  AND  HEIR. 


21 


The  st.irtled  eyes  had  shrunk  from  his  eager,  flushed  face 
and  looked  over  the  wide  sea.  I'or  fully  five  minutes  she 
never  spoke  or  stirred.  To  his  dying  day  that  hour  was  with 
him — his  passionate  love,  his  siek,  horrible  fear,  his  <X\/./.y 
rapture,  when  she  spoke  at  last,  only  one  word — "  yes."  To 
his  dying  day  he  saw  her  as  he  saw  her  then,  in  her  sum- 
mery muslin  dress,  her  gii)sy  hat,  the  pale,  troubled  look 
chasing  the  color  from  the  drooping  face. 

But  the  answer  was  "yes."  VVas  he  not  a  baronet? 
Was  she  not  a  well-trained  English  giil  ?  And  the  ecstasy 
of  pride,  of  joy,  of  that  city  soap-boiler's  family,  who  shall 
paint?  "Awake  my  muse"  and — but,  no!  it  passeth  all 
telling.  They  bowed  down  before  him  (figuratively), 
this  good  British  tradesman  and  his  fat  wife,  and  worshipped 
him.  They  burned  incense  at  his  shrine  ;  they  adored  the 
ground  he  walked  on  ;  they  snubbed  their  neighbors,  and 
held  their  cliins  at  an  aUitude  never  attained  by  the  fa.nily 
of  Dobb  before.  And  in  si.v  weeks  Miss  Ethel  Dobb  be- 
came Lady  Catheron. 

It  was  the  quietest,  the  dullest,  the  most  secret  of  wed- 
dings— not  a  soul  present  except  Papa  and  Mamma  Dobb,  a 
military  swell  in  the  grenadier  guards — Pythias,  at  present, 
to  Sir  Victor's  Damon— the  i)arson,  and  the  pew-oi)ener. 
lie  was  madly  in  love,  but  he  was  ashamed  of  the  family 
soa]:)-boiling,  and  he  was  afraid  of  his  cousin  Inez. 

lie  told  them  a  vague  story  enough  of  family  matters, 
etc.,  that  rendered  secrecy  for  the  present  necessary,  and 
nobody  cross-questioned  the  baronet.  That  the  parson  was 
a  parson,  the  marriage  bona  fide,  his  daughter  "my  lady," 
and  himself  the  prospective  grandfather  of  many  baronets, 
was  enough  for  the  honest  soap-boiler. 

I'or  the  bride  herself,  she  said  little,  in  a  .shy,  faltering 
little  way.  She  was  very  fond  of  her  dashing,  high-born, 
in)i)ulsive  lover,  and  very  well  content  not  to  come  into  the 
full  blaze  and  dazzle  of  high  life  just  yet.  If  any  other 
romance  had  ever  l"igured  in  her  simple  life,  the  story  was 
finished  and  done  with,  the  book  read  and  put  away. 

lie  took  her  to  Switzerland,  to  (jcrmany,  to  Southern 
France,  keeping  well  out  of  the  way  of  other  tourists,  and 
ten  months  followed — ten  months  of  such  exquisite,  unal- 
loyed bliss,  as  rarely  falls  to  mortal  man.     Unalloyed,  did  I 


22 


WIFE  AND  HEIR. 


say  ?  Well,  not  quite,  since  earth  and  heaven  are  two 
different  places.  In  tiie  dead  of  pale  Southern  nights,  with 
the  shine  of  the  moon  on  his  wife's  lovely  sleeping  face  ;  in 
the  hot,  brilliant  noontide  ;  in  the  sweet,  green  gloaming — 
Inez  Catheron's  black  eyes  came  menacingly  before  iiiin  — 
the  one  bitter  drop  in  his  cup.  All  his  life  he  had  been  a 
little  afraid  of  her.  He  was  something  more  than  a  little 
afraid  of  her  now. 

They  re-varned.  The  commodious  lodgings  in  Russell 
Square  awaited  him,  and  Sir  Vi:tor  "went  in  "  for  domestic 
felicity  in  the  parish  of  Bloomsbury,  "  on  the  quiet."  Very 
nuich  "on  the  quiet" — no  tiieatre  going,  no  ojjera,  no  visi- 
tors, and  big  Captain  Jack  Krroll,  of  the  Second  (Grenadiers, 
his  only  guest.  Four  months  of  this  sort  of  thing,  and  tlien 
— and  then  there  was  a  son. 

Lying  in  her  lace-draped,  satin-covered  bed,  looking  at 
baby's  fat  little,  funny  little  face,  Ethel,  Lady  Catheron, 
began  to  think.  She  had  time  to  think  in  her  quiet  and 
solitude.  Monthly  nurses  and  husbands  being  in  tiie  very 
nature  of  things  antagonistic,  and  nurse  being  reigniiig  po- 
tentate at  present,  the  husband  was  banished.  And  Lady 
Catheron  grew  hot  and  indignant  that  tiie  heir  of  Catheron 
Royals  should  have  to  be  born  in  London  lodgings,  and  the 
mistress  of  Catheron  Royals  live  shut  up  like  a  nun,  or  a 
fair  Rosamond  in  a  bower. 

"  You  have  no  relations  living  but  your  cousin,  Victor," 
she  said  to  him,  more  coldly  than  she  had  ever  spoken  in 
her  life.  "  Are  you  master  in  your  own  house,  or  is  she  ? 
Are  you  afraid  of  this  Miss  Catheron,  who  writes  you  such 
!ong  letters  (which  1  never  see),  that  you  dare  not  take  your 
wife  home  ?  " 

He  had  told  her  something  of  that  other  story  necessarily 
— his  former  engagement  to  his  cousin,  Inez.  Only  some- 
thing— not  the  bare  ugly  truth  of  his  own  treachery.  The 
soap-boiler's  daughter  was  more  noble  of  soul  than  the 
baronet.  Gentle  as  she  was,  she  would  have  des[)ised  him 
thoroughly  had  she  known  the  truth. 

"  This  secrecy  has  lasted  long  enough,"  Lady  Catheron 
said,  a  resolute-looking  expression  crossing  her  pretty,  soft- 
cut  mouth.  "The  time  has  come  when  you  must  speak. 
Don't  make  me  think  you  are  ashamed  of  me,  or  afraid  of 


WIFE  AND  HEIR. 


23 


her.  Take  me  home — it  is  my  right ;  acknowledge  your  son 
— it  is  his.  When  there  was  only  I,  it  did  not  so  much  matter 
— it  is  different  now." 

She  lifted  one  of  baby's  dots  of  hands,  and  kissed  it. 
And  Sir  Victor,  his  face  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  the  cur- 
tains, his  voice  husky,  made  answer  : 

"You  are  right,  Ethel — you  always  are.  As  soon  as  you 
both  can  travel,  my  wife  and  child  sliall  come  home  with  me 
to  Catheron  Royals." 

Just  three  weeks  later,  as  the  August  days  were  ending, 
came  that  last  letter  from  Inez,  commanding  his  return. 
His  hour  had  come.  He  took  the  next  morning  train,  and 
went  forth  to  meet  the  woman  he  feared  and  had  wronged. 

The  afternoon  sun  drops  lower.  If  Sir  Victor  returns 
from  Cheshire  to-day,  Lady  Catheron  knows  he  will  be  here 
in  a  few  minutes.  She  looked  at  her  watch  a  little  wearily. 
The  days  are  very  long  and  lonely  without  him.  Looks  up 
again,  her  eyes  alight.  A  hansom  has  dashed  uj)  to  the 
door,  and  it  is  her  husband  who  leajjs  out.  Half  a  minute 
and  he  is  in  the  room,  and  she  is  clasped  in  his  arms. 

"  My  darling  !  "  he  exclaims,  and  you  need  only  hear  the 
two  words  to  tell  how  rapturously  he  loves  his  wife.  ."  Let 
nie  look  at  you.  Oh  !  as  pale  as  ever,  I  see.  Never 
mind  !  Cheshire  air,  sunshine,  green  fields,  and  new  milk 
shall  bring  back  your  roses.  And  your  son  and  heir,  my 
lady,  how  is  he  ?  " 

He  bends  over  the  pretty  bassinet,  with  that  absurd 
paternal  look  all  very  new  f:Uhers  regard  the  hrst  blessing, 
and  his  mustache  tickles  baby's  innocent  nose. 

A  flush  comes  into  her  face.     She  looks  at  him  eagerly. 

"  At  last  1     Oh,  Victor,  when  do  we  go  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,  if  you  are  able.     The  sooner  the  better." 

He  says  it  with  rather  a  forced  laugh.  Her  face  clouds  a 
little. 

"  And  your  cousin  ?  Was  she  very  angry  !  "  she  asked, 
wistfully  ;  "  very  much  surprised  ?  " 

"  Well — yes — naturally,  I  am  afraid  she  was  both.  We 
must  make  the  best  of  that,  however.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
had  only  one  interview  with  her,  and  that  rf  so  particularly 
unpleasant  a  nature,  that  I  left  next  morning.     So  then  we 


24 


WIFE  AND  HETR. 


start  to-morrow  ?  I'll  just  drop  a  line  to  Erroll  to  apprise 
him." 

He  catches  hold  of  his  wife's  writing-table  to  wheel  it 
near.  l>y  some  chiiiisiiiess  his  foot  catches  in  one  of  its 
spidery  claws,  and  with  a  crash  it  tojjples  over.  Away  goes 
the  writing  case,  Hying  open  and  scattering  the  contents  far 
and  wide.  The  crasli  siiocks  baby's  nerves,  baby  begins  to 
cry,  and  the  new-made  mamma  Hies  to  her  angel's  side, 

"I  say!"  Sir  Victor  cries.  "Look  hero!  Awkwaid 
thing  of  me  to  do,  eh,  J'Uhel  ?  Writing  case  broken  too. 
Never  mind,  I'll  pick  'cm  up." 

He  goes  down  on  his  knees  boyishly,  and  begins  gathering 
them  up.  Letters,  cnvelo])es,  wax,  seals,  pens  and  pencils. 
He  flings  all  in  a  heap  in  the  broken  case.  Lady  Catheron 
cooing  to  baby,  looks  smilingly  on.  Suddenly  he  comes  to 
a  full  stop. 

Comes  to  a  full  stop,  and  holds  something  before  him  as 
though  it  were  a  snake.  A  veiy  harmless  snake  ajiparently 
— the  photograph  of  a  young  and  handsome  man.  For  fully 
a  minute  he  gazes  at  it  utterly  aghast.  "Good  Heaven  !" 
his  wife  hears  liim  say. 

Holding  baby  in  her  arms  she  glances  at  him.  The  back 
of  the  picture  is  toward  her,  but  she  recognizes  it.  Her  fl^ce 
turns  ashen  gray — she  moves  round  and  bends  it  over  baby. 

"  Ethel !  "  Sir  Victor  says,  his  voice  stern,  "  what  does 
this  mean  ?  " 

"What  does  what  mean  ?  Hush-h-h  baby,  darling.  Not 
so  loud,  Victor,  i)lease.     1  wan't  to  get  babe  asleep." 

"  How  comes  Jr.an  Catheron's  picture  here  ?  " 

She  catches  her  breath — the  tone,  in  which  Sir  Victor 
speaks,  is  a  tone  not  pleasant  to  hear.  She  is  a  thoroughly 
good  little  thing,  but  the  best  of  little  things  (being  women) 
are  cr;:^o  dissemblers.  For  a  second  she  dares  not  face  him; 
then  she  conv;s  bravely  up  to  time  and  looks  at  him  over 
her  shoulder. 

"Juan  Catheron!  Oh,  to  be  sure.  Is  that  ])icture  here 
yet?"  with  a  little  laugh.  "I  thougiit  I  had  lost  it  centu- 
ries ago."  "  Cood  Heaven  !  "  she  exclaims  inwardly  ;  "  how 
coidd  I  have  been  such  a  fool  !  " 

Sir  Victor  rises  to  his  feet — a  curious  jiassing  likeness  to 
his  dark   cousin,  Inez,  on  his   fair   blonde   face.     "  Then 


WIFE  AND  ITEIR, 


25 


)t 


apprise 

vhcel  it 
ic  of  its 
■A)'  goes 
cuts  far 
;ins  to 

wkwarcl 
cii  too. 


athcriiig 
I  ])cncils. 
Juthcroii 
comes  to 

e  him  as 
iparcntly 
For  fully 
cavcn  ! " 

I 

The  back 

Her  face 

iver  baby. 

t'hat  does 

ng.     Not 


iir  Victor 
lioronghly 
^  women) 

face  him; 

him  over 

:ture  here 

it  ccntii- 

ly  ;  "  how 

kcness  to 
"  Then 


joii   know  Juan   Cathcron.     You!     And  you   never  told 
me." 

"  My  dear  Sir  Victor,"  with  a  little  pout,  "don't  be  un- 
reasonable. I  should  have  something  to  do,  if  I  put  you  an 
coiiraiit  of  all  my  acquaintances.  1  knew  Mr.  Callicron — 
slightly,"  with  a  gasp.     "  Is  there  any  crime  in  that  ?  " 

"Yes!"  Sir  Victor  answers,  in  a  voice  that  makes  his 
wife  jinnp  and  his  son  cry.  "Yes — there  is.  I  wouldn't 
own  a  dog— -if  Juan  Calheron  had  owned  hiin  before  nie. 
'I'o  look  at  him,  is  pollution  enough  — to  know  him — dis- 
grace ! " 

"  Victor !     Disgrace  I  " 

"  Disgrace,  Ethel  I  He  is  one  of  the  vilest,  most  profli- 
gate, most  lost  wretches  that  ever  disgraced  a  good  name. 
I'Uhel,  1  command  you  to  tell  me — was  this  man  ever  any- 
thing to  you — friend — lover — what?" 

"  And  if  he  has  been — what  then  ?  "  She  rises  and  faces 
him  proudly.     "Am  I  to  answer  for  his  sins  ?" 

"  Yes — we  all  must  answer  more  or  less  for  those  who 
are  our  friends.  How  come  you  to  have  his  picture  ?  What 
has  he  been  to  you?  Not  your  lover — for  Heaven's  sake, 
Kthel,  never  that  I  " 

"And  why  not?  Mind  !"  she  says,  still  facing  him,  her 
blue  eyes  aglitter,  "I  don't  say  that  he  was,  but  //  he  was 
— what  then  ?  " 

"  What  then  ?"  He  is  white  to  the  lips  with  jealous  rage 
and  fear.  "  This  then— _>'<?«  sliould  never  again  he  luifc  of 
viine  !  " 

"  Victor ! "  she  puts  out  her  hands  as  if  to  ward  ofT  a 
blow,  "don't  say  that— oh,  don't  say  that!  And — and  it 
isn't  true — he  never  was  a  lover  of  mine — never,  never !  " 

She  bursts  out  with  the  denial  in  passionate  fear  and 
trembling.  In  all  her  wedded  life  she  has  never  seen  him 
look,  heard  him  speak  like  this,  though  she  has  seen  him 
jealous — needlessly — often. 

"lie  never  was  your  lover?  You  are  telling  me  the 
truth?" 

"No,  no — never!    never,  Victor — don't  look  like  that! 

Oh,  what  brought  that  wretched  picture  here  !  I  knew  him 

slightly — only  that — and  he  did  give  me   his  photograpli. 

How  could  I   tell  he  was   the  wretch  you  say  he  is — how 

2 


26 


WIFE  AND  HEIR. 


could  I  think  there  would  be  any  barm  in  taking  a  picture  ? 
He  seemed  nice,  Victor.     What  did  he  ever  do  ?  " 

"  He  seemed  nice  ! "  Sir  Victor  repeated,  Oitterly  ;  "  and 
what  did  he  ever  do  ?  What  has  lie  left  undone  you  had 
better  ask.  He  has  broken  every  command  of  the  decalogue 
— every  law  human  and  divine.  He  is  dead  to  us  all — his 
sister  included,  and  has  been  these  many  years.  Ethel,  can 
I  believe—" 

•'  I  have  told  you,  Sii  Victor.  You  will  believe  as  you 
please,"  his  wife  answers,  a  little  sullenly,  turning  away  from 
him. 

She  understands  him.  His  very  jealousy  and  anger  are 
born  of  his  passionate  love  for  her.  To  grieve  her  is  tor- 
ture to  him,  yet  he  grieves  her  often. 

For  a  tradesman's  daughter  to  marry  a  baronet  may  be 
but  one  remove  from  paradise  ;  still  it  is  a  remove.  And  the 
serpent  in  Lady  Calheron's  Eden  is  the  ugliest  and  most 
vicious  of  all  serpents — ^jealousy.  He  has  never  shown  his 
green  eyes  and  obnoxious  claws  so  palpably  before,  and  as 
Sir  Victor  looks  at  her  bending  over  her  baby,  his  lierce 
paroxysm  of  jealousy  gives  way  to  a  fierce  paroxysm  of 
love. 

••  Oh,  Ethel,  forgive  me  !  "  he  says ;  "  I  did  not  mean  to 
wound  you,  but  the  thought  of  that  man — faugh  !  l>ut  I 
am  a  fool  to  be  jealous  of  you,  my  white  lily.  Kiss  me — 
forgive  me — we'll  throw  this  snake  in  the  grass  out  of  the 
window  and  forget  it.  Only — 1  had  rather  you  had  told 
me." 

He  tears  up  the  wretched  little  mischief-making  picture, 
and  flings  it  out  of  the  window  with  a  look  of  disgust.  Then 
they  "  kiss  and  make  up,"  but  the  stab  has  been  given,  and 
Avill  rankle.  The  folly  of  her  past  is  dcjing  its  work,  as  all 
our  follies  past  and  present  are  pretty  sure  to  do. 


now  LADY  GATHER  ON   CAME   HOME. 


27 


CHAPTER  III. 


HOW  LADY   CATHERON   CAME   HOME. 


j.CT^^ATE  in  the  afternoon  of  a  September  day  Sir  Vic- 
r  p)^  tor  Catheron,  of  Catlieron  Royals,  brought  home 
L^^    his  wife  and  son. 

-^^^  His  wife  and  son  !  The  county  stood  astounded. 
And  it  had  been  a  dead  secret.  Dreadful !  And  Inez 
Catheron  was  jilted  ?  Shucking !  And  she  was  a  soap- 
boiler's daughter  ?  Horrible !  And  now  when  this 
wretched,  misguided  young  man  could  keep  his  folly  a 
secret  no  longer,  he  was  bringing  his  wife  and  child  home. 

The  resident  gentry  sat  thunderstruck.  Did  he  expect 
they  could  call?  (This  was  the  gentler  sex.)  Plutocracy 
might  jostle  aristocracy  into  the  background,  but  the  line 
must  be  diawn  somewhere,  and  the  daughter  of  a  London 
soap-boiler  they  would  not  receive.  Who  was  to  be  posi- 
tive there  had  been  a  marriage  at  all.  And  poor  Inez 
Catheron  !  Ah  it  was  very  sad — vory  sad.  There  was  a 
well-known,  well-hidden  taint  of  insanity  in  the  Catheron 
family.  It  must  be  that  latent  insanity  cropping  up.  The 
young  man  mast  siin|)ly  be  mad. 

Nevertheless  bells  rung  and  bonfires  blazed,  tenantry 
ch'*ered,  and  all  the  old  servants  (with  Mrs.  Marsh,  the 
housekcci)er,  and  Mr.  Hooper,  the  butler,  at  their  head) 
were  drawn  up  in  formidable  array  to  receive  them.  And 
if  both  husband  und  wife  were  very  pale,  very  silent,  and 
very  nervous,  who  is  to  blame  them  ?  Sir  Victor  had  set 
society  at  defiance ;  it  was  society's  turn  now,  and  then — 
there  was  Inez  ! 

For  Lady  Catheron,  the  dark,  menacing  figure  of  her  hus- 
band's cousin  haunted  her,  too.  As  the  big,  turretcd,  tow- 
ered, ivied  pile  of  stone  and  mortar  called  Catheron  Royals, 
with  its  great  bell  booming,  its  Union  Jack  waving,  reared 
up  before  the  soap-boiler's  daughter — she  absolutely  cowered 
with  a  dread  that  had  no  name. 

"  1  am  ahaid  !  "  she  said.     "  Oh,  Victor,  I  am  afraid  1  " 

He  laughed — not  quite  naturally,  though.     If  the  painful 


28 


HOW  LADY   CAT  HERON  CAME  HOME. 


truth  must  be  told  of  a  baronet  and  a  Catheron,  Sir  Victor 
was  afraid,  too. 

"  Afraid  ?  "  he  laughed  ;  "  of  wliat,  Ethel  ?  The  ghost  of 
the  Gray  Lady,  vvlio  walks  twice  in  every  year  in  Rupert's 
Tower?  Like  all  fine  old  families,  we  have  our  line  old 
family  ghost,  and  would  not  part  with  it  for  the  world.  I'll 
tell  you  the  legend  some  day  ;  at  present  '  screw  your  cour- 
age to  the  sticking  place,'  for  here  we  are." 

He  descended  from  the  carriage,  and  walked  into  the 
grand  manorial  hall,  vast  enough  to  have  lodged  a  hun- 
dred men,  his  wife  on  his  arm,  his  head  very  high,  his  face 
very  pale.  She  clung  to  him,  poor  child  !  and  yet  she 
battled  hard  for  her  dignity,  too.  Hat  in  hand,  smiling 
right  and  left  in  the  old  pleasant  way,  he  shook  hands  with 
Mrs.  Marsh  and  Mr.  Hooper,  presented  them  to  my  lady, 
and  bravely  inquired  for  Miss  Inez.  Miss  Inez  was  well, 
and  awaiting  him  in  the  Cedar  drawing-room. 

They  ascended  to  the  Cedar  drawing-room,  one  of  the 
grandest  rooms  in  the  house,  all  gilding  and  ormolu,  and 
magnificent  upholstery — Master  Baby  following  in  the  arms 
of  his  nurse.  The  sweet  face  and  soft  eyes  of  Lady  Catheron 
had  done  their  work  already  in  the  ranks  of  the  servants — 
she  would  be  an  easier  mistress  to  serve  than  Miss  Inez. 

"  If  she  ever  is  mistress  in  her  own  house,"  thought  Mrs. 
Marsh,  who  was  "companion"  to  Miss  Catheron  as  well  as 
housekeeper;  "and  mistress  she  never  will  be  while  Miss 
Catheron  is  at  the  Royals." 

The  drawing-room  was  brilliantly  lit,  and  standing  in  the 
full  glare  of  the  lamps — Inez.  She  was  gorgeous  this  even- 
ing in  maize  silk,  that  was  like  woven  sunshine  ;  she  had  a 
white  camelia  in  her  hair,  a  diamond  cross  on  her  breast, 
scented  laces  about  her,  diamonds  on  her  arms  and  in  her 
cars.  So  she  stood — a  resplendent  vision — so  Sir  Victor 
beheld  her  again. 

He  put  up  his  hand  for  an  instant  like  one  who  is 
dazzled — then  he  led  forward  his  wife,  as  men  have  led  on  a 
forlorn  hope. 

"  My  cousin,"  he  said,  "my  wife  ;  Inez,  this  is  Ethel." 

There  was  a  certain  pathos  in  the  simi^licity  of  the  words, 
in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  in  the  look  of  iiis  eyes.  And  as 
some  very  uplifted  young  empress  might  bow  to  the  lowliest 


JIOIV  LADY   CATHERON  CAME  HOME. 


29 


of  her  handmaidens,  IMiss  Catheron  bowed  to  Lady  Cath- 
cron. 

"Elliel,"  she  rei)cated,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  "a  pretty 
nan)e,  and  a  pretty  face.  I  congratulate  you  on  your  taste, 
Victor.     And  this  is  tiie  baby — 1  must  look  at  him." 

There  was  an  insulTerable  insolence  in  the  smile,  an  in- 
sufferable sneer  in  the  compliment.  Ethel  had  half  extended 
a  ti:n'(l  h.i'ul — Victor  had  wholly  extended  a  pleading  one. 
Sh!^  took  m.'t  the  slightest  notice  of  either.  She  lifted  the 
white  veil,  and  looked  down  at  the  sleeping  baby. 

"The  heir  of  Catheron  Royals,"  she  said,  "and  a  fine 
baby  no  doubt,  as  babies  go.  1  don't  pretend  to  be  a  judge. 
He  is  very  bald  and  very  tlabby,  and  very  fat  just  at  present. 
Whom  does  lie  resembie  ?  Not  you,  Victor.  .  O,  no  doubt 
the  distaff  side  of  the  house.  What  do  you  call  him,  nurse  ? 
Not  christened  yet  ?  But  of  course  the  heir  of  the  house  is 
alwaj's  chri.>tened  at  Catheron  Royals.  Victor,  no  doubt 
you'll  follow  tiie  habit  of  your  ancestors,  and  give  him  his 
mother's  faunly  name.  Your  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a 
maniuis,  and  you  are  Victor  St.  Albans  Catheron.  Good 
customs  should  not  be  dropped — let  your  son's  name  be 
Victor  Dohb  Catheron." 

She  laughed  as  she  dropped  the  veil,  a  laugh  that  made 
all  the  blood  in  Sir  Victor's  body  tingle  in  his  face.  But  he 
stood  silent.  And  it  was  Ethel  who,  to  the  surprise  of 
every  one,  her  husband  included,  turned  upon  Miss  Cathe- 
ron with  tkrshing  eyes  and  Hushing  cheeks. 

"And  suppose,  he  is  christened  Victor  Dobb  Cathe- 
ron, what  then  ?  It  is  an  honest  English  name,  of  which 
none  of  my  family  have  ever  had  reason  to  feel  ashamed. 
My  husband's  mother  may  have  been  the  daughter  of  a  mar- 
quis— my  son's  mother  is  the  daughter  of  a  tradesman — the 
name  th" .  has  been  good  enough  f.r  me  will  be  good  enough 
for  hini.  1  have  yet  to  learn  there  is  any  disgrace  in  honest 
trade." 

Miss  Catheron  smiled  once  mor?,  a  smile  more  stinging 
'than  words. 

"  No  doubt.  You  have  many  things  yet  to  learn,  I  am 
quite  sure.  Victor,  tell  your  wife  that,  however  dulcet  her 
voice  may  be,  it  would  sound  sweeter  if  not  raised  so  very 
high.     Of  course,  it  is  to  be  expected — I  make  every  allow- 


30 


HO  IV  LADY    CAT/IE  RON  CAME  HOME. 


a  nee,  poor  child,  for  the  failings  of  her — class.  The  dress- 
ing-bell is  ringing,  dinner  in  an  hour,  until  then — ait 
rei'oir." 

Still  with  that  most  insolent  smile  she  bows  low  once 
more,  and  in  her  gold  silk,  her  Spanish  laces,  her  diamonds 
and  s])lendor.  Miss  Catheron  swept  out  of  the  room. 

And  this  was  Ethel's  welcome  home. 

*|C  SjC  Sf*  *|?  ^»  ?|»  ^?  ^*  ^*  •!* 

Just  two  hours  later,  a  young  man  can'se  walking  briskly 
up  the  long  avenue  leading  to  the  great  portico  entrance  of 
Cadieron  Royals.  The  night  was  dark,  excej)!  for  the  chill 
white  stars — here  under  the  arching  oaks  and  elms  not  even 
the  starlight  shone.  But  neither  for  tlie  darkness  nor  loneli- 
ness cared  this  young  man.  With  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
he  went  along  at  a  swinging  pace,  whistling  cheerily.  He 
was  very  tall ;  he  walked  with  a  swagger.  You  could  make 
out  no  more  in  the  darkness. 

The  great  house  loomed  up  before  him,  huge,  black,  grand, 
a  row  of  lights  all  along  the  first  floor.  'J'he  young  man 
stopped  his  whistling,  and  looked  up  with  a  smile  not  pleas- 
ant to  see. 

"  Four  years  ago,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth,  **  you  flung 
me  from  your  door  like  a  dog,  most  noble  baronet,  and  you 
swore  to  lodge  me  in  Chesholm  jailif  I  ever  i)resunied  to  come 
back.  And  1  swore  to  pay  you  off  if  I  ever  had  a  chance. 
To-night  the  chance  has  come,  thanks  to  the  girl  who  jilted 
me.  You're  a  young  man  of  uncommonly  high  stomach, 
my  baronet,  iiroud  as  the  deuce  and  jealous  as  the  devil.  I'll 
give  your  pride  and  your  jealousy  a  chance  to  show  them- 
selves to-night." 

He  lifted  the  massive  brass  knocker,  and  brought  it  down 
with  a  clang  that  echoed  through  the  house.  Then  he  be- 
gan whistling  again,  watching  those  lighted,  lace-draped  win- 
dows. 

"And  to  think,"  he  was  saying  inwardly,  "to  think  of  our 
litde  Ethel  benig  mistress  here.  On  my  word  it's  a  lift  in 
life  for  the  soap-boiler's  pretty  daughter.  I  wonder  what 
they're  all  about  up  there  now,  and  how  Inez  takes  it.  1 
should  think  there  must  have  been  the  dickens  to  pay  when 
she  heard  it  first." 

The  heavy  door  swung  back,  and  a  dignified  elderly  gen- 


HO  IV  LADY  CAT/IE  RON  CAME  HOME. 


31 


tlenian,  in  black  broadcloth  and  silk  stockings,  stood  gazing 
at  the  intruder.  The  young  man  stepped  from  the  outer 
darkness  into  the  ligiitcd  vestibule,  and  the  elderly  gentle- 
man fell  back  with  a  cry. 

"Master  Juan!" 

'■^Mister  Juan,  Hooper,  if  you  please  —  Mister  Juan. 
William,  my  old  cockalorum,  my  last  rose  of  summer,  how 
goes  it  ?  " 

.  He  grasped  the  family  butler's  hand  with  a  jolly  laugh, 
and  gave  it  a  shake  that  brought  tears  of  torture  to  its 
owner's  eyes.  In  the  blaze  of  the  hall  chandelier  he  stood 
revealed,  a  big  fellow,  with  eyes  and  h:.ir  raven  black,  and  a 
bold,  bronzed  face. 

"What,  Villiam  !  friend  of  my  childhood's  days,  'none 
knew  thee  but  to  love  thee,  none  named  thee  but  to  praise' 
— not  a  word  of  welcome  ?  Stricken  dumb  at  sight  of  the 
prodigal  son!  I  say!  \V'here's  the  rest?  The  baronet, 
you  know,  and  my  sister,  and  the  new  wife  and  kid?  In 
the  dining-room  ?  " 

"  In  the  dining-room,"  Mr.  Hooper  is  but  just  able  to 
gasp,  as  with  horror  pictured  on  his  face  he  falls  back. 

"All  right,  then.  Don't  fatigue  your  venerable  shanks 
preceiling  mc.  I  know  the  way.  Bless  you,  William,  bless 
you,  and  be  happy  ! " 

]Te  bounces  up  the  stairs,  this  lively  young  man,  and  the 
next  instant,  hat  in  hand,  stands  in  the  large,  handsome, 
brilliantly  lit  dining-room.  They  are  still  lingering  over  the 
dessert,  and  with  a  simultaneous  cry,  and  as  if  by  one  im- 
pulse, tiie  three  start  to  tiieir  feet  and  stand  contbunded. 
The  young  man  strikes  a  tragic  tiieatrical  attitude. 

"Scene — dining-room  of  the  reprobate  '  Don  Giovanni ' 
— tremulo  music,  lights  half  down — enter  statue  of  virtuous 
Don  Pedro."  He  breaks  into  a  rollicking  laugh  and  changes 
his  tone  for  that  of  every-day  life.  "  Didn't  expect  me,  did 
you?"  he  says,  addressing  everybody.  "Joyful  surprise, 
isn't  it?  Inez,  how  do?  I'aronet,  your  humble  servant. 
Sony  to  intrude,  but  I've  been  told  my  wife  is  here,  and  I've 
come  after  her,  naturally.  And  here  she  is.  Kthel,  my  dar- 
ling, who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you  at  Catheron  Royals, 
an  honored  guest?  (live  us  a  kiss,  my  angel,  and  say 
you're  glad  to  see  your  scrapegrace  husband  back." 


32 


*'DESDEMONA'S  HONEST:' 


He  strides  forward  and  has  her  in  his  arms  before  any  one 
can  speak.  He  stoops  his  blackbcaidcd  face  to  kiss  h(.r, 
just  as  with  a  gasping  sob,  her  golden  head  falls  on  his 
shoulder  and  she  faints  dead  away. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


"  I'll  not  believe  but  desdemona's  honest." 

ITH  a  cry  that  is  like  nothing  human,  Sir  Vic- 
tor Calheron  leaps  forward  and  tears  his  fainting 
wife  out  of  the  grasp  of  the  black-bronzed,  bearded, 
piratical-looking  young  man. 

"You  villain  !"  he  shouts,  hoarse  with  amaze  and  fury; 
"stand  back,  or  by  the  living  Lord  I'll  have  your  life  !  You 
scoundrel,  how  dare  you  lay  hands  on  my  wife  !" 

"Your  wife  I  Yours!  Come  now,  I  like  that!  It's 
against  the  law  of  this  narrow-minded  country  for  a  woman 
to  have  two  husbands.  You're  a  magistrate  and  ought  to 
know.  Don't  call  names,  and  do  keep  your  tem[)er — vio- 
lent language  is  unbecoming  a  gentleman  and  a  baronet. 
Inez,  what  does  he  mean  by  calling  J^thel  his  wife  ?  " 

"She  is  his  wife,"  Inez  answers,  her  black  eyes  glittering. 

"  Oh,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  she  is.  Slie's  mine — mine  hard 
and  fast,  by  jingo.  There's  some  little  misunderstanding 
here.  Keep  your  temper,  baronet,  and  let  us  clear  it  up.  J 
married  Miss  Ethel  Dobb  in  Glasgow,  on  the  thirteenth  of 
May,  two  years  ago.  Now,  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  when  did 
yon  marry  her." 

Sir  Victor  made  no  answer;  his  face,  as  he  stood  support- 
ing his  wife,  was  ghastly  with  rage  and  fear.  Ethel  lay  like 
one  dead  ;  Juan  Catheron,  still  eminently  good-humored 
and  self-possessed,  turned  to  his  sister  : 

"  Look  here,  Inez,  this  is  how  it  stands  :  Miss  Dobb  was 
only  fifteen  when  I  met  her  first.  It  was  in  Scotland.  We 
fell  in  love  with  each  other ;  it  was  the  suddenest  case  of 
spoons  you  ever  saw.  We  exchanged  pictures,  we  vowed 
vows,  we  did  the  '  meet  me  by  moonlight  alone '  business — 


*'DESDEMONA'S  HONEST:' 


33 


you  know  the  ]5rogramiTie  yourself.  Tlie  time  came  to  part 
— EtliL-l  to  return  to  school,  I  to  sail  for  the  China  Sea — and 
the  day  we  left  Scotland  we  went  into  churcli  and  were  mar- 
ried. There  !  I  don't  deny  wc  parted  at  the  church  door, 
and  have  never  met  since,  but  slie's  my  wife  ;  mine,  baronet, 
by  Jove  !  since  the  fust  marriage  is  the  legal  one.  Come, 
jiow  !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  been  and  married 
another  fellow's  wife.  Ton  my  word,  you  know  I  shouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  J-lthel." 

"She  is  reviving,"  Inez  said. 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  her  eyes  were  shining  like  black 
stars.  Slie  knew  her  brother  for  a  liar  of  old,  but  what  if 
this  were  true  ?  what  if  her  vengeance  were  here  so  soon  ? 
She  held  a  glass  of  iced  champagne  to  the  white  lips. 

"  Drink  !  "  she  said,  authoritatively,  and  Ethel  mechani- 
cally drank.  Then  the  blue  eyes  opened,  and  she  stood 
erect  in  Sir  Victor's  arms. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  slie  said.     "What  has  happened?" 

Her  eyes  fell  upon  the  dark  intruder,  and  with  a  cry  of 
fear,  a  shudder  of  repulsion,  her  hands  Hew  up  and  covered 
her  face. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  darling,"  Sir  Victor  said,  holding 
her  close,  and  looking  with  Hashing,  defiant  eyes  at  his 
enemy ;  "  this  coward  has  told  a  monstrous  falsehood. 
Deny  it,  my  love.  I  ask  no  more,  and  my  servants  shall 
kick  him  out." 

"Oh,  shall  they!"  said  Mr,  Catheron  ;  "well,  we'll  see. 
Now,  Ethel,  look  here.  I  don't  understand  this  business, 
you  know.  What  does  Sir  Victor  mean  by  calling  you  his 
wife?  It  isn't  possible  you've  gone  and  committed  bigamy 
— there  must  be  a  mistake.  Vou  are  my  wife,  and  as  such 
I  claim  you." 

"  Ethel,  you  hear  that,"  Sir  Victor  cried  in  a  voice  of 
agony;  "tor  Heaven's  sake  speak  !  The  sight  of  this  fellow 
— the  sound  of  his  voice  is  driving  me  mad.  Speak  and 
deny  this  horrible  charge." 

"She  can't,"  said  Juan  Catiieron  ! 

"  I  can  I  I  do  !  "  exclaimed  Ethel,  starting  up  with 
Hushing  face  and  kindling  eyes;  "It  is  a  monstrous  lie. 
Victor !  O,  Victor,  send  him  away  I  It  isn't  true — it  isn't, 
it  isn't  1" 


34 


"DESDEMO/V.rS  HONEST." 


"Hold  on,  Sir  Victor,"  Mr.  Catlieron,  interposed,  "let 
me  ask  this  young  lady  a  question  or  two.  Ktlioi,  do  you 
remember  May,  two  years  ago  in  Scotland?  Look  at  this 
picture;  it's  yours,  isn't  it?  Look  at  this  ring  on  my  little 
finger;  you  gave  it  to  me,  didn't  you  ?  Think  of  the  little 
CMasgo\v  presbytery  where  we  went  through  the  ceremony, 
and  deny  that  I'm  your  husband,  if  you  can." 

But  her  blood  was  up — gentle,  yielding,  timid,  she  had 
yet  a  spirit  of  her  own,  and  lier  share  of  British  "  pluck." 

She  faced  her  accuser  like  a  small,  fair-haiied  lioness,  her 
eyes  flashing  blue  fire. 

"  I  do  deny  it !  You  wretch,  how  dare  you  come  here 
with  such  a  lie  I"  She  turned  her  back  upon  him  with  a 
scorn  under  which  even  he  winced.  "  Victor  !  "  she  cried, 
lifting  her  clasped  hands  to  her  husband,  "hear  me  and  for- 
give me  if  you  can.  I  have  done  wrong — wrong — but  I — I 
was  afraid,  and  I  thought  he  was  drowned.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  all — I  did,  indeed,  but  paj^a  and  mamma  were  afraiil — 
afraid  of  losing  you,  Victor.  I  told  you  a  falsehood  about  the 
photograph — he,  that  wretch,  did  give  it  to  me,  and — "  her 
face  drooped  with  a  bitter  sob — "he  was  my  lover  then, 
years  ago,  in  Scotland." 

"Ah!"  quoted  Mr.  Catheron,  "truth  is  mighty  and  will 
prevail  I  Tell  it,  Ethel ;  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth." 

"Silence,  sir!"  Lady  Cameron  cried,  "and  don't  dare 
call  me  Ethel.  I  was  only  fifteen,  Victor — tliink  of  it,  a  child 
of  fifteen,  spending  my  holidays  in  Glasgow  when  1  met 
him.  And  he  dared  to  make  love  to  me.  It  amused  him 
for  the  time — representing  himself  as  a  sort  of  banished 
prince,  a  nobleman  in  disguise.  He  took  my  silly,  girlish 
fancy  for  the  time.  What  did  I  at  fifteen  know  of  love  ? 
The  day  I  was  to  return  home,  we  exchanged  pictures  and 
rings,  and  he  took  me  out  for  a  last  walk.  He  led  me 
into  a  solitary  chapel,  and  made  me  join  hands,  and  pledge 
myself  to  be  his  wife.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  the  place 
but  ourselves.  As  we  left  it  we  met  papa.  We  shook 
hands  and  i)arted,  and  until  this  hour  I  have  never  since 
set  eyes  on  his  face.  Victor,  don't  blame  me  too  mucli — 
think  what  a  child  I  was — remember  I  was  afraid  of  him. 
The  instant  he  was  out  of  my  sight  I  disliked  him.     He 


''DESDEMONA'S  HONEST." 


35 


wrote  to  me — I  never  answered  his  letters,  except  once, 
and  then  it  was  to  return  his,  and  tell  him  to  trouble  me  no 
more.  That  is  all.  O  Victor  !  don't  look  like  that  !  I 
am  sorry — 1  am  sorry.     Forgive  me  or  I  shall  die." 

He  was  ashen  white,  but  there  was  a  dignity  about  him 
that  awed  into  silence  even  the  easy  assurance  of  Juan 
Catheron.  He  stooped  and  kissed  the  tear-wet,  passionate, 
pleading  face. 

"I  believe  yon,"  he  said;  "your  only  fault  was  in  not 
telling  me  long  ago.     Don't  cry,  and  sit  down." 

He  placed  her  in  a  chair,  walked  over,  and  confronted 
his  cousin. 

"  Juan  Catheron,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  slanderer  and  a 
scoundrel,  as  you  always  were.  Leave  this  house,  and  never, 
wliilst  I  live,  set  your  foot  across  its  threshold.  Five  years 
ago  j'ou  committed  a  forgery  of  my  name  for  three  thousand 
pounds.  I  turned  you  out  of  Catheron  Royals  and  let  you 
go.  1  hold  that  forged  check  yet.  Enter  this  house  again, 
repeat  your  infamous  lie,  and  you  shall  rot  in  Chesholni 
jail !  I  spared  you  then  for  your  sister's  sake — for  the 
name  you  bear  and  disgrace — but  come  here  again  and  de- 
fame my  wife,  and  I'll  transport  you  though  you  were  my 
brother.     Now  go,  and  never  come  back." 

He  walked  to  the  door  and  flung  it  wide.  Juan  Catheron 
stood  and  looked  at  him,  his  admirable  good-humor  unruffled, 
something  like  genuine  admiration  in  his  face. 

"  l>y  Jupiter  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "who'd  have  thought  it! 
Such  a  milk-sop  as  he  used  to  be  !  Well,  baronet,  I  don't 
deny  you  got  the  upper  hand  of  me  in  that  unpleasant  little 
aftair  of  the  forgery,  and  Portland  Island  with  a  chain  on 
my  leg  and  hard  labor  for  twenty  years  I  don't  particularly 
crave.  Of  course,  if  Ethel  won't  come,  she  won't,  but  I  say 
again  it's  deuced  shabby  treatment.  Because,  baronet,  that 
sort  of  thing  is  a  marriage  in  Scotland,  say  what  you  like.  I 
suppose  it's  natural  she  should  prefer  the  owner  of  Catheron 
Royals  and  twenty  thousand  per  annum,  to  a  jioor  devil  of 
a  sailor  like  me  ;  but  all  tlie  same  it's  hard  lines.  Good-by, 
Inez — be  sisterly,  can't  you,  and  come  anil  see  a  fellow.  I'm 
stopping  at  the  'Ring  o'  Bells,'  in  Chesholm.  Good-by, 
Ethel.    '  Thou  hast  learned  to  love  another,  thou  hast  broken 


36 


••  DESDEMON.'VS  HONEST:* 


every  vow,'  but  you  mif;ht  shake  liands  for  the  scke  of  old 
times.  You  won't— well,  then,  good-by  without.  The  ne\t 
time  I  mairy  I'll  make  sure  of  my  wife." 

He  swaggered  out  of  the  room,  giving  Sir  Victor  a  friendly 
and  forgiving  nod,  (lung  his  wide-awake  on  his  black  curls, 
clattered  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  liouse. 

"  By-by,  William,"  lie  said  to  the  butler.  "  I'm  off  again, 
you  see.  Most  inhospitable  lot  /  ever  saw — never  so  much 
as  offered  me  a  glass  of  wine.  Good- night,  my  daisy.  Oh  river ! 
as  they  say  in  French.     Oh  river  !  " 

The  door  closed  upon  him.  He  looked  back  at  the  lighted 
windows  and  laughed. 

"  I've  given  them  a  rare  fright  if  nothing  else.  She  went 
oft"  stiff  at  sight  of  me,  and  he — egad  !  the  little  fair-haired 
baronet's  plucky  after  all — such  a  molly-coddle  as  he  used 
to  be.  Of  course  her  being  my  wife's  all  bosh,  but  the  scare 
was  good  fun.  And  it  won't  end  here — my  word  for  it.  He's 
as  jealous  as  the  Grand  Turk.  I  hope  Inez  will  come  to  see 
me  and  give  me  some  money.  If  she  doesn't  I  must  go 
and  see  her,  that's  all." 

He  was  gone — and  for  a  moment  silence  reigned. 
Lights  burned,  llowers  bloomed,  crystal  and  silver  shone, 
rare  wines  and  rich  fruits  glowed,  liut  a  skeleton  sat  at 
the  feast.  Juan  Catheron  had  done  many  evil  deeds  in  his 
lifetime,  but  never  a  more  dastardly  deed  than  to-night. 

There  was  a  flash  of  intolerable  triumph  in  the  dark  eyes 
of  Inez.  She  detested  her  brother,  but  she  could  have  kissed 
him  now.  She  had  lost  all,  w(.'alth,  position,  and  the  man 
she  loved — this  girl  with  the  tangled  yellow  hair  and  pink 
and  white  face  had  taken  all  from  her,  but  even  her  jiath 
was  not  to  be  altogether  a  path  of  roses. 

Ashen  pale  and  with  eyes  averted.  Sir  Victor  walked  back 
and  resumed  his  seat  at  the  table.  Ashen  pale,  trembling 
and  frightened,  luhel  sat  where  he  had  placed  her.  And  no 
one  spoke — wliat  was  there  to  be  said  ? 

It  was  a  fortunate  thing  that  just  at  this  juncture  baby 
should  see  fit  to  wake  and  set  up  a  dismal  cry,  so  shrill  as 
to  penetrate  even  to  the  distant  dinner-room.  Lady 
Catheron  rose  to  her  feet,  uttered  a  hasty  and  incoherent 
apology,  and  ran  from  the  room. 


"DESDEMON.VS  HONEST:' 


37 


She  (lid  not  return.  Peace  reigned,  tlie  infant  licir  of  tlie 
Callierons  was  soothed,  but  his  nianiina  went  downstairs  no 
more  tiiat  night.  She  lingered  in  the  nursery  for  over  an 
hour.  Somehow  by  her  baby's  side  she  felt  a  sense  of  peace 
and  safety.  Slie  dreaded  to  meet  her  husband.  What  must 
he  think  of  her  ?  She  had  stooped  to  concealment,  to  false- 
hood— would  he  ever  love  her  or  trust  her  again? 

She  went  at  last  to  her  rooms.  On  the  dressing-table  wax 
lights  burned,  but  the  bedroom  was  unlit.  She  seated  her- 
self by  tiie  window  and  looked  out  at  the  starlit  sky,  at  the 
darkly-waving  trees  of  the  park.  "And  this  is  my  welcome 
home,"  she  thought,  "  to  fmd  in  my  husband's  house  my 
rival  and  enemy,  whose  first  look,  whose  first  words  are  in- 
sults. Slie  is  mistress  here,  not  I.  And  that  fatal  folly  of 
my  childhood  come  back.  That  horrible  man  !  "  She 
sliudderei  as  she  sat  alone.  "  Ah,  why  did  I  not  tell,  why 
did  maniiUabeg  me  to  hide  it  from  him  ?  She  was  so  afraid 
he  would  have  gone — so  afraid  her  daughter  would  miss  a 
baronet,  and  I — I  was  weak  and  a  coward.  No,  it  is  all 
over — he  will  never  care  for  me,  never  trust  me  again." 

He  came  in  as  she  sat  there,  mournful  and  alone.  In  the 
dusk  of  the  chamber  the  little  half-hidden  white  figure 
caught  his  eye,  the  golden  hair  glimmering  through  the  dusk. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  is  that  window  oi)en  ?  Come  away 
immediately — you  will  take  cold  in  the  draught." 

He  spoke  gently  but  very  coldly  as  he  had  never  spoken 
to  her  before.     She  turned  to  him  with  a  great  sob. 

"  Oh,  Victor,  forgive  me  !  "  she  said. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  loved  her  with  a  great 
and  passionate  love  ;  to  see  her  weep  was  torture,  to  see 
her  suffer,  misery.  She  had  never  been  dearer  than  in  this 
hour.  Still  he  stood  aloof,  torn  by  doubt,  racked  by  jeal- 
ousy. 

*'  Ethel,"  he  cried  out,  "  7a/iy  did  you  deceive  me  ?  I 
thought — I  could  have  sworn  you  were  all  truth  and  inno- 
cence, stainless  as  a  lily,  white  as  an  angel.  And  to 
think  that  another  man — and  of  all  men  Juan  Catheron. 
No.  I  cau't  even  think  of  it — it  is  enough  to  drive  me 
mad ! " 

She  fell  down  on  her  kn^es  before  him  and  held  up  her 
clasped  hands. 


38 


''DESDEMONA'S  //OA'EST." 


"  I  was  only  a  child,  Victor.  I  knew  nothing  of  liim, 
nothing  of  love.  1  have  clone  wrong,  shamefully,  sinfully 
wrong  in  concealing  the  trutii,  but  you  were  so  exacting,  so 
jealous,  and  I  was  so  afraid  of  losing  you.  I  loved  you  so 
—  1  loved  you  so.     O,  Victor,  forgive  nie  or  1  sluill  die  !  " 

He  looked  down  at  her,  the  hatred  that  is  twin  sister  to 
love  in  his  eyes. 

"And  I  was  a  baronet.  Had  that  anything  to  do  with 
your  fear  of  losing  me,  or  was  the  deception,  the  falsehood, 
caused  wholly  by  love  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  cruel  thing  he  had  evet  said  to  her,  re- 
pented of  as  soon  as  said.  She  arose  to  her  feet  and  turned 
away. 

"1  have  deserved  it,"  she  answered.  "  I  told  you  a  false- 
hood once — why  should  you  believe  me  now  ?  I  have  no 
more  to  say.  The  woman  who  had  ever  known  Juan  Catheron, 
could  be  no  wife  of  yours — that  was  your  sentence — was  I 
likely  to  confess  after  hearing  it  ?  I  hid  the  trutii  for  fear  of 
losing  you — attribute  the  motive  to  what  you  please.  1  am 
yours  to  dispose  of  as  you  see  fit.  Send  me  away  if  you 
like.     It  will  be  no  more  than  I  deserve." 

She  stood  with  her  back  toward  him  looking  out  into 
the  night.  He  was  standing  also  quite  still,  listening  and 
watching  her.  Send  her  awnv.  She  knew  him  well ;  knew 
that  it  was  as  utterly  impos.iilile  he  could  let  her  go,  could 
live  without  her,  as  that  siie  could  reach  up  and  remove  one 
of  those  shining  stars. 

"  Send  you  away,"  he  repeated  ;  "  send  you  away,  Ethel ! 
my  love,  my  wife  I  " 

She  was  in  his  arms,  held  to  him  in  a  strained  embrace. 
She  trembled,  she  shrank  in  his  grasp.  The  fierce  impe- 
tuosity of  his  love  frightened  her  at  times. 

"  Then  you  do  forgive  me  ? ''  she  whispered.  "  Oh, 
Victor,  I  am,  I  a/n  sorry.  Indeed,  indeed,  my  darling,  it 
was  because  I  loved  you  I  dared  not  tell.  You  forgive  me,  I 
know,  but  let  me  hear  you  say  it." 

*'  Forgive  you  !  Ethel,  is  there  anything  in  the  world  I 
would  noi  forgive  ?  I  have  heard  of  men  who  went  mad  and 
died  for  women.  I  laughed  at  them  once — I  can  understand 
it  now.  I  should  die  or  go  mad  if  I  lost  you.  I  forgive  you, 
but — if  you  had  only  told  me  before." 


IN  THE    TWr LIGHT. 


39 


There  was  a  little  sob,  and  her  head  lay  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  tried  to  once  or  twice — 1  ditl  indeed,  but  you  know 
what  a  cow, I  1  lam.  And  nianiina  forbade  my  telling — tiiat 
is  the  truth.  She  said  I  had  been  a  little  fool — that  was  all 
over  and  done  with — no  need  to  be  a  great  fool,  telling  my 
own  folly.  And  after  we  were  married,  and  I  saw  you 
jealous  of  every  man  I  looked  at — you  know  you  were,  sir! 
— 1  was  more  scared  than  ever.  1  thought  Juan  Cathcroii 
was  dead.  I  never  wrote  to  him.  I  had  returned  all  his 
letters.  I  thought  1  had  destroyed  his  picture  ;  I  never  knevv 
that  I  had  done  so  very  wrong  in  knowing  him  at  all,  until 
that  day  in  Russell  Square.  But  Victor — husband — only 
forgive  me  this  once,  and  I'll  never,  never  have  a  secret  from 
you  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

Slie  was  little  better  than  a  child  still — this  pretty  youthful 
matron  and  mother.  And  with  the  sweet,  pleading  face 
upliucd,  the  big  blue  eyes  swimming  in  tears,  the  quivering 
]i|)s,  the  padietic  voice,  he  did  what  you,  sir,  would  have 
done  lu  his  place — kissed  and  forgave  her. 


CHAPTER  V. 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT. 


0  words  can  be  strong  enough  to  reprehend  your 
conduct,  Victor.  You  have  acted  disgracefully ; 
you  are  listening,  sir, — disgracefully,  I  say,  to  your 
cousin  Inez.  And  you  are  the  first  of  your  line 
who  has  blurred  the  family  escutcheon.  Dukes'  daughters 
have  entered  Calheron  Royals  as  brides.  It  was  left  for 
you  to  wed  a  soap-boiler's  daughter !  " 

Thus  Lady  Helena  Powyss,  of  Powyss  Place,  to  her 
nephew.  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  just  one  fortnight  after  that 
memorable  night  of  his  wife  and  heir's  coming  home.  The 
young  man  stood  listening  in  sullen  anger,  the  red  blood 
mounting  to  his  very  temi)les.  His  Cousin  Inez  had  man- 
aged during  the  past  two  weeks  to  make  his  existence  as 
thoroughly  uncomfortable  as  a  thoroughly  jealous  and  spite- 


:4o 


IN  THE    TWILIGHT. 


fill  woman  can.   He  had  flown  at  last  to  his  aunt  for  comfort, 
and  this  is  how  he  got  it. 

"  Lady  Helena,"  he  burst  forth,  "  this  is  too  much  !  Not 
even  from  you  will  I  bear  it.  A  soap-boiler's  daughter  my 
wife  may  be — it  is  the  only  charge  that  can  be  brought 
against  her.  I  have  married  to  please  myself,  and  it  docs 
please  me  enormously.  Inez,  confound  her  !  badgers  me 
enough.  I  didn't  expect,  Aunt  Helena,  to  be  badgered  by 
you." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  badger  you.  I  bring  no  charge 
against  your  wife.  I  have  seen  her  but  once,  and  j^ersonally 
I  like  her  excessively.  I  believe  her  to  be  as  good  as  she 
is  pretty.  But  against  yntir  conduct  I  do  and  will  i)rotest. 
You  have  cruelly,  shamefully  wronged  your  cousin — humil- 
iated her  beyond  all  telling.  I  can  only  wonder — yes, 
Victor,  wonder — that  with  her  fiery  nature  she  takes  it  as 
quietly  as  she  does." 

"As  quietly  as  she  does  !  Good  Heavens  !  "  burst  forth 
this  "badgered"  baronet.  "You  should  live  in  the  same 
house  with  her  to  find  out  how  quietly  she  takes  it.  Women 
understand  how  to  torture — they  should  have  been  grand 
inquisitors  of  a  Spanish  inquisition,  if  such  a  thing  ever  ex- 
isted. I  am  afraid  to  face  her.  She  stabs  my  wife  in  fifty 
different  ways  fifty  times  a  day,  and  I — my  guilty  conscience 
won't  let  me  silence  her.  Ethel  has  not  known  a  hai)])y 
hour  since  she  entered  Catheron  Royals,  and  all  through  her 
infernal  serpent  tongue.  Let  her  take  care — if  she  were  ten 
times  my  cousin,  even  she  may  go  one  stc])  to  far." 

"  Does  that  mean,  Victor,  you  will  turn  her  from  Catheron 
Royals?" 

"It  means  that,  if  you  like.  Inez  is  my  cousin,  Ethel  is 
my  wife.  You  are  her  friend,  Aunt  Helena  ;  you  will  be  do- 
ing a  f  iendly  action  if  you  drop  her  a  hint,  I  wish  you 
good-morning." 

He  took  his  hat  and  turned  to  go,  his  handsome  blonde 
face  sullen  and  set. 

"  Very  well,"  Lady  Helena  answered  ;  "  I  will.  You  are 
to  blame — not  that  poor  fair-haired  child.  I  will  speak 
to  Inez;  and,  Victor,  I  will  try  to  forgive  you  for  your 
mother's  sake.  Though  you  broke  her  heart  she  would  have 
forgiven  you.     I  will  try  to  do  as  she  would  have  done — and 


ul 


IN  THE    TWILIGHT. 


41 


I  like  the  little  thinp;.  You  will  not  fail  me  on  Thuisdiiy 
next  ?  If  /  take  up  your  wife  all  the  neighborhood  will,  you 
may  depend." 

"  We  are  not  likely  to  fail.  The  invitation  is  like  your 
kindness,  Aunt  Helena.     Thanks  very  much  !" 

His  short-lived  anger  died  away  ;  he  gave  his  hand  frankly 
to  iiis  aunt.  She  was,  his  wife's  friend — the  only  one  who 
had  taken  the  slightest  notice  of  her  since  her  arrival.  For 
the  resident  gentry  had  decided  that  they  couldn't — really 
couldn't — call  ujion  the  soap-boiler's  daughter. 

Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  shocked  and  scandalized  his  order 
as  it  had  not  been  shocked  and  scandalized  for  half  a  cen- 
tury. A  banker's  daughter,  a  brewer's  daughter,  they  were 
prepared  to  accept — banking  and  brewing  are  genteel  sort 
of  things.  But  a  soap-boiler  ! — and  married  in  secret ! — and 
a  baby  born  in  lodgings  ! — and  Miss  Catheron  jilted  in  cold 
blood  ! — Oh  it  was  shameful  I — shameful  !  No,  they  could 
not  call  upon  the  new  Lady  Catheron — well,  at  least  until 
they  saw  whether  the  Lady  Helena  Powyss  meant  to  take 
her  up. 

Lady  Helena  was  the  only  sister  of  the  young  baronet's 
late  mother,  with  no  children  of  her  own,  and  very  strongly 
attached  to  both  Sir  Victor  and  Inez.  His  mother's  dying 
desire  had  been  that  he  should  marry  his  cousin.  He  had 
promised,  and  Lady  Helena's  strongest  hope  in  life  had 
been  to  see  that  promise  fulfilled.  The  news  of  his  low 
marriage  fell  upon  her  like  a  thunderbolt.  She  was  the 
proudest  of  dowagers — when  had  a  Catheron  made  a  mesal- 
liance before  ?  No  ;  she  could  not  forgive  him — could 
never  receive  his  v/lfe. 

But  when  he  came  to  her.  [lale,  sad,  appealing  for  pardon, 
she  relented.  It  was  a  very  tender  and  womanly  heart,  de- 
spite its  pride  of  birth,  that  beat  in  Lady  Helena's  bosom; 
and  jolly  Scjuire  Powyss,  who  had  seen  the  little  wife  at  the 
Royals,  took  sides  with  his  nejihew. 

"  It's  done,  and  can't  be  undone,  my  dear,"  the  squire 
said,  philosphically  ;  "and  it's  always  wise  to  make  the  best 
of  a  bad  bargain  ;  and  'pon  my  life,  my  love,  it's  the  sweetest 
little  face  the  sun  ever  shone  on  !  Gad  !  I'd  have  done  it 
myself.  Forgive  him,  my  dear — boys  will  be  boys — and  go 
and  see  his  wife." 


42 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT. 


Lady  Helena  yielded — love  for  her  boy  stronger  than 
pride  or  anger.  Slie  went ;  and  there  came  into  one  of  tlie 
dusk  drawing-rooms  of  the  Royals,  a  little  white  vision,  witli 
fair,  floating  liair,  and  pathetic  blue  eyes — a  little  creature, 
so  like  a  cluld,  that  the  tender,  motherly  heart  of  the  great 
lady  went  out  to  her  at  once. 

"  You  pretty  little  thing  ! "  she  said,  talcing  her  in  her 
arms  and  kissing  her  as  though  she  had  been  eight  rathe: 
than  eighteen.  "  You're  nothing  but  a  baby  yourself,  and 
you  have  got  a  baby  they  tell  uie.  Take  me  to  see  him,  my 
dear." 

They  were  friends  from  that  hour.  Ethel,  with  grateful 
tears  in  her  eyes,  led  her  up  to  the  dainty  berceaunetle 
whore  the  heir  of  Catheron  Royals  slept,  and  as  she  kissed  his 
velvet  cheek  and  looked  pityingly  from  babe  to  mother,  the 
last  remains  of  anger  died  out  of  her  heart.  Lady  Helena 
Powyss  would  "  take  Lady  Catheron  up." 

"Slie's  pretty,  and  gentle,  and  good,  and  a  lady  if  ever  I 
saw  one,"  she  said  to  Inez  Catheron  ;  "and  she  doesn't 
look  too  happy.  Don't  be  to  hard  on  her,  my  dear — it  isn't 
her  fault.  Victor  is  to  blame.  No  one  feels  that  more 
than  I.  But  not  that  blue-eyed  child — try  to  forgive  her 
Inez,  my  love.     A  little  kindness  will  go  a  long  way  there." 

Inez  Cathercn  sitting  in  the  sunlit  window  of  her  own 
luxurious  room,  turned  her  face  from  the  rosy  sunset  sky 
full  upon  her  aunt. 

"  1   know  what   I  owe  my  cousin  Victor  and  his  wife," 
-  she  answered  steadily,  "and  one  day  I  shall  pay  my  debt." 

The  large,  lustrous  Spanish  eyes  turned  oni:e  more  to  the 
crimson  light  in  the  western  sky.  Some  of  that  lurid  splen- 
dor lit  her  dark,  colorless  face  with  a  vivid  glow.  Lady 
Helena  looked  at  her  uneasily — there  was  a  depth  here  she 
could  not  fathom.  Was  Inez  "taking  it  quietly"  after 
all? 

"  I  — I  don't  ask  yon  to  forgive  him,  my  dear,"  ';he  said, 
nervously — "at  least,  just  yet.  I  don't  think  I  could  do  it 
myself.  And  of  course  you  can't  be  expected  to  f.'el  very 
kindly  to  her  who  has  usurped  your  place.  Ikit  I  would  let 
her  alone  if  I  were  you.  Victor  is  master  liere,  and  his  wife 
nuist  be  mistress,  and  naturally  hedo*"sn't  like  it.  Yo.^  m'^^ht 
go  too  far,  and  then — " 


b:i 

re 
St; 
bi 
in 
w; 
pi 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT. 


43 


"  He  might  turn  me  out  of  Catheron  Royals — is  that  what 
you  are  trying  to  say,  Aunt  Helena  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  dear — ' 

"  Victor  was  to  see  you  yesterday.  Did  he  tell  you  this? 
No  need  to  distress  yourself — I  see  he  did.  And'  so  I  am 
to  be  turned  from  Catheron  Royals  for  the  soaj)-boiler's 
daughter,  if  I  don't  stand  aside  and  let  her  reign.  It  is  well 
to  be  warned — I  siiall  not  forget  it." 

Lady  Helena  was  at  a  loss.  What  could  she  say  ?  What 
could  she  do?  Something  in  the  set,  intense  face  of  the 
gill  frightened  her — absolutely  frightened  her.  She  rose 
hurriedly  to  go. 

"  Will  you  come  to  Powyss  Place  on  Thursday  next  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  I  hardly  like  to  press  you,  Inez,  under  the 
circumstances.  For  poor  Victor's  sake  I  want  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  I  give  a  dinner  party,  as  you  know  ;  invite  all 
our  friends,  and  present  Lady  Catheron.  There  is  no  help 
for  it.  If  I  take  her  up,  all  the  country  will ;  but  if  yoii 
had  rather  not  appear,  Inez — " 

There  was  a  sharp,  quick,  warning  flash  from  the  black 
eyes. 

"  Why  should  I  not  appear?  Victor  may  be  a  coward — 
/am  not.  I  will  go.  I  will  face  our  whole  visiting  list,  and 
''  jfy  them  to  pity  me.  Take  up  the  soai)-boiler's  heiress  by 
ai'  means,  but,  powerful  as  you  arc,  I  doubt  if  even  you  will 
•  -  able  to  keep  her  afloat.  Try  the  experiment — give  the 
t«in:er  party — I  will  be  there." 

"It's   a  very  fine  thing  for  a  tradesman's   daughter   to 
marry  a  rich  baronet,  no  doubt,"  commented  Lady  Helena, 
as  she  was  driven  home;  "but,  with  Inez  for  my  rival,  ./ 
jhouldn  I  care  to  risk  it.     I  only  hope,  for  my  sake  at  least, 
she  will  let  the  poor  thins;  alone  riext  Thursday." 

The  "  ])oor  thing  "  indeed  1  If  Sir  Victor's  life  had  been 
badgered  dining  the  i)ast  fortnight,  his  wife's  life  had  been 
rendered  nearly  unendurable.  Inez  knew  so  well  how  to 
stab,  and  she  never  spared  a  thrust.  It  was  wonderful,  the 
biiterest,  stinging  things  she  could  say  over  and  over  again, 
in  her  slow,  legato  \.owc?,.  She  never  spared.  Her  tongue 
was  a  two-edged  sword,  and  the  black  deriding  eyes  looked 
pitilessly  on  her  victim's  writhes  and  quivers.  And  Ethel 
bore  it.     She  loved  her  husband — he  feared  his  cousin — for 


44 


IN  THE    TWILIGHT. 


his  sake  she  endured.  Only  once,  after  some  trebly  cruel 
stab,  she  had  cried  aloud  in  her  passionate  pain  : 

"1  c 'n't  endure  it,  Victor — 1  cannot!  She  will  kill  nie. 
Take  u  '"  "V  to  London,  to  Russell  Square,  anywher-^  away 
from  your  ful  cousin  !  " 

He  had  ,.i  :ied  her  as  best  he  miyht,  and  riding  over  to 
Powyss  Place,  had  given  his  aunt  that  warning. 

"  It  will  seem  a  horribly  cruel  and  inhuman  thing  to  turn 
her  from  the  home  where  she  has  reigned  mistress  so  long," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I  will  never  be  able  to  ho'd  up  my 
head  in  the  county  after — but  she  must  let  Ethel  alone.  Py 
fair  means  or  foul  she  must. 

The  day  of  Lady  Helena  Powyss'  party  came — a  terrible 
ordeal  for  Ethel.  She  had  grown  miserably  nervous  under 
the  life  she  had  led  the  past  two  weeks — the  ceaseless 
mockery  of  Miss  Catheron's  soft,  scornful  tones,  the  silent 
contemi)t  and  derision  of  her  iiard  black  eyes.  What  should 
she  wca,r  ?  how  should  she  act  ?  \Miat  if  she  made  some 
absurd  blunder,  betraying  her  plebeian  birdi  and  breeding  ? 
What  if  she  mortified  her  thin-skinned  husband?  Oh  !  why 
was  it  necessary  to  go  at  all  ? 

"  My  dear  child,"  her  husband  said,  kissing  her  good-hu- 
moredly,  "it  isn't  worth  that  despairing  face.  Just  put  on 
one  of  your  pretty  dinner-dresses,  a  tlower  in  your  hair,  and 
your  pearls.  Be  your  own  simple,  natural,  dear  little  self, 
and  there  will  not  be  a  lady  at  Aunt  Helena's  able  to  shine 
you  down." 

And  when  an  hour  after,  she  descended,  in  a  sweeping 
robe  of  silvery  blue,  white  lilies  in  her  yellow  hair,  and  pale 
pearls  clasping  her  slim  throat,  she  looked  fair  as  a  dream. 

Liez's  black  eyes  flashed  angrily  as  they  fell  up)n  her. 
Soap-boiler's  daughter  she  might  be,  with  the  blood  of  many 
Dobbs  in  her  veins,  but  no  young  peeress,  born  to  the  pur- 
ple, ever  looked  more  graceful,  more  refined. 

For  Miss  Catheron  iierself,  she  was  quite  bewildering  in  a 
dress  of  dead  white  silk,  soft  laces  and  dashes  of  crimson 
about  her  as  usual,  and  rubies  flashing  here  and  there.  She 
swept  on  to  the  carriage  with  head  held  haughtily  erect,  a 
contemptuous  smile  on  her  lips,  like  anything  on  earth  but 
a  jilted  maiden. 

Lady  Helena's  rooms  were  filled  when  they  entered ;  not 


m  THE   TWIUGHT. 


45 


one  invitation  had  been  declined.  Society  had  mustered  in 
fullest  force  to  sec  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  low-born  wife,  to 
SCO  how  Miss  Catheron  bore  her  humiliation,  ilow  would 
the  one  bear  their  bcrutiny,  the  other  their  pity  ?  IJiit  .Miss 
Catheron,  handsome,  smiling,  brilliant,  came  in  among  them 
with  eyes  that  said  :  "Pity  me  if  you  dare  !  "  And  upon 
Sir  Victor's  arm  there  followed  the  small,  graceful  figure, 
the  sweet,  fair  face  of  a  girl  who  did  not  look  one  day  more 
than  sixteen — by  all  odds  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  rooms. 

Lady  Helena — who,  when  she  did  that  sort  of  thing,  did 
do  it — took  the  little  wife  under  her  wing  at  once.  People 
by  the  score,  it  seemed  to  the  bewildered  Ethel,  were  pre- 
sented, and  the  stereotyped  compliments  of  society  were 
jKnired  into  her  ear.  Sir  Victor  was  congratulated,  sincerely 
by  the  men,  with  an  undercurrent  of  pity  and  mockery  by 
the  women.  Then  they  were  all  at  dinner — the  bride  in  the 
place  of  honor — running  the  gauntlet  of  all  those  eyes  on 
the  alert  for  any  solicism  of  good  manners. 

She  went  through  it  all,  her  cheeks  Hushing,  her  eyes 
kindling  with  excitement  growing  prettier  every  moment. 
Her  si)irits  rose — she  would  let  these  people  and  Inez  Cath- 
eron see,  she  was  their  equal  in  all  things  save  birth.  She 
talked,  she  laughed,  she  took  cai'tive  half  the  male  hearts, 
and  when  the  ladies  at  length  sailed  away  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Lady  Helena  stooped  and  kissed  her,  almost  with 
motherly  pride. 

"  My  dear,"  she  whispered,  "let  me  congratulate  you. 
Nothing  could  be  a  greater  success.  All  the  men  are  in  love 
with  you — all  the  women  jealous.  A  most  excellent  begin- 
ning indeed  I  " 

She  laughed  pleasantly,  this  kindly  dowager,  and  passed 
on.  It  was  an  unspeakable  relief  to  her  to  see  her  nephew's 
low-born  wife  face  society  so  bravely  and  well.  And  better 
still,  Inez  had  not  launched  one  single  poisoned  dart.  But 
the  evening  was  not  ended  yet.  Inez's  time  was  to  come. 
Enter  the  gentlemen  presently,  and  flirtations  are  resumed, 
tCti'-a-tCtcs  in  quiet  corners  recommenced,  conversation  be- 
comes general.  There  is  music.  A  certain  Lord  Verriker, 
the  youngest  man  jiresent,  and  the  greatest  in  social  status, 
monopolizes  Lady  Catheron.  He  leads  her  to  the  piano, 
and  she  sings.     She  is  on  trial  still,  and  docs  her  best,  and 


46 


TN  THE   TWILIGHT. 


her  best  is  very  good — a  sweet  Scotch  ballad.  There  is 
quite  a  murmur  of  applause  as  she  rises,  and  through  it  there 
breaks  Miss  Catheron's  soft,  sarcastic  laugh.  The  ilush 
deepens  in  Ethel's  cheek — the  laugh  is  at  her  performance 
she  feels. 

And  now  the  hour  of  Inez's  vengeance  comes.  Young 
Captain  Varden  is  leaning  over  her  chair ;  he  is  in  love  with 
Miss  Catheron,  and  hovers  about  her  unceasingly.  He 
talks  a  great  deal,  though  not  very  brilliantly.  He  is  telling 
her  in  an  audible  undertone  how  Jack  Singleton  of  "  Ours  " 
has  lately  made  an  object  of  himself  before  gods  and  men, 
and  irretrievably  ruined  himself  for  life  by  marrying  the 
youngest  Miss  Potter,  of  Potter's  Park. 

"  Indeed  !  "  Miss  Catheron  responds,  with  her  light  laugh, 
and  her  low,  clear  voice  perfectly   distinct  to  all ;    "  the 


youngest   Miss  Potter.     Ah,    yes 
The  paternal  Potter  kept  a  shop 


enough  behind 
tenant  Singleton 


!  I've  heard  of  them, 
in  Chester,  didn't  he — a 
grocer,  or  s  mething  of  the  sort,  and  having  made  money 
the  counter,  has  retired.  And  poor  Lieu- 
has  married  the  youngest  Miss  Potter ! 
*  Whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first  lake  mad.'  A 
very  charming  girl  no  doubt,  as  sweet  as  the  paternal 
treacle,  and  as  melting  as  her  father's  butter.  It's  an  old 
custom  in  some  families — my  own  for  instance — to  quarter 
the  arms  of  the  bride  on  the  family  shield.  Now  what  do 
you  suppose  the  arms  of  the  Potter  family  may  be — a  white 
apron  and  a  pair  of  scales  ?  " 

And  then,  all  through  the  room,  there  is  a  horrible  sup- 
pressed laugh.  The  blood  rushes  in  a  hery  tide  to  the  face 
of  Sir  Victor,  and  Lady  Helena  outglows  her  crimson  velvet 
gown.  Ethel,  with  the  youthful  Lord  Verriker  still  hover- 
ing around  her,  has  but  one  wild  instinct,  that  of  tlight.  Oh  ! 
to  be  away  from  these  merciless  peo[)le — from  that  bitter, 
dagger-tongued  Inez  Catheron  1  She  looks  wildly  at  her 
husband.  Must  she  bear  this  ?  But  his  back  is  to  her — he 
is  wilfully  blind  and  deaf  The  courage  to  take  up  the 
gauntlet  for  his  wife,  to  make  a  scene,  to  silence  his  cousin, 
is  a  courage  he  does  not  possess. 

Under  the  midnight  stars  Lady  Helena's  guests  drive 
home.  In  the  carriage  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron  there  is  dead 
silence.     Ethel,  shrinking  from  her  husband  almost  as  much 


Ic 


IN    THE    TWILIGHT. 


47 


as  from  his  cousin,  lies  back  in  a  corner,  pale  and  mute. 
Inez  Catlieron's  dauntless  black  eyes  look  \\\)  at  the  white, 
countless  stars  as  she  softly  hiuns  a  tune.  Sir  Victor  sits 
with  his  eyes  shut,  but  he  is  not  asleep.  He  is  in  a  rac^e 
with  himself,  he  hates  his  cousin,  he  is  afraid  to  look  at  his 
wife.  One  way  or  other  he  feels  there  must  be  an  immedi- 
ate end  of  this. 

The  first  estrangement  that  has  parted  him  and  Ethel  has 
come.  He  hardly  knows  her  to-nigiit — her  cold,  brief  words, 
her  averted  face,  her  palpable  shrinking  as  he  approaches. 
She  despises  him,  and  with  reason,  a  man  who  has  not  the 
courage  to  protect  his  wife  from  insult. 

Next  day  Lady  Catheron  declines  to  appear  at  either 
breakfast  or  luncheon,  and  when,  live  minutes  before  dinner, 
Sir  Victor  and  Miss  Catheron  meet  in  the  dining-room,  she 
is  absent  still.  He  rings  the  bell  angrily  and  demands  where 
she  is. 

"My  lady  has  gone  out,"  the  footman  answers.  "She 
went  half  an  hour  ago.  She  had  a  book  with  her,  and  she 
went  in  the  direction  of  the  laurel  walk." 

"  I  will  go  in  search  of  her,"  Sir  Victor  says,  taking  his 
hat  ;  "let  dinner  wait  until  our  return." 

Eii;el  has  gone,  because  she  cannot  meet  Inez  Catheron 
agam,  never  again  break  bread  at  the  same  board  with  her 
pitiless  enemy.  She  cried  herself  quietly  to  sleep  last  night ; 
her  head  aches  with  a  dull,  sickening  pain  to-day.  To  be 
home  once  more — to  be  back  in  the  cosy,  common-place 
Russell  square  lodgings  I  If  it  were  not  for  baby  she  feels 
as  though  she  would  like  to  run  away,  from  Sir  Victor  and 
all,  anywhere  that  Inez  Catlieron's  black  eyes  and  derisive 
smile  could  never  come. 

The  September  twilight,  sparkling  with  frosty-looking  stars, 
is  settling  down  over  the  trees.  The  great  house  looms  up, 
big,  sombre,  stately,  a  home  to  be  i)roud  of,  yet  Etiiel  shud- 
ders as  she  looks  at  it.  The  only  miserable  days  of  her  life 
have  been  spent  beneath  its  roof ;  she  will  hate  it  before 
long.  Her  very  love  for  her  husband  seems  to  die  out  in 
bitter  contempt,  as  she  thinks  of  last  night,  when  he  stood 
by  and  heard  his  cousin's  sneering  insult.  The  gloaming  is 
chilly,  she  draws  her  shawl  closer  around  her,  and  walks 
slowly  up  and  down.    Slow,  miserable  tears  trickle  down  her 


48 


IX  THE   TWILIGHT. 


cliecks  as  she  walks.  She  feels  so  utterly  alone,  so  utterly 
forlorn,  so  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  this  merciless  woman. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  says,  with  a  passionate  sob,  and  unconsciously 
aloud,  '■'■wJiy  did  I  ever  many  him  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean  Sir  Victor  Calhcron,"  answers  a  voice,  "  I. 
think  I  can  tell  you.  Yon  married  Sir  Victor  Cathcron  be- 
cause he  was  Sir  Victor  Cathcron.  But  it  isn't  a  marriage, 
my  dear — you  know  that.  A  young  lady  can't  have  two 
husbands,  and  I'm  your  legal,  lawful-wedded  spouse." 

Siie  utters  a  cry — she  recoils  with  a  face  of  terror,  for 
there  in  the  twilight  before  her,  tall,  black,  sinister,  stands 
Juan  Catheron. 

"  You  P'  she  gasps. 

"  I,  my  dear — I,  in  the  flesh.  Did  you  think  I  had  gone  ? 
My  dear  Ethel,  so  I  would  have  gone,  if  Inez  had  come  down 
in  the  sisterly  way  she  should.  But  she  hasn't.  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor  her  conduct  has  been  shabby  in  the  ex- 
treme. A  few  hundreds — [  asked  no  more — and  she 
wouldn't.  What  was  a  miserly  fifty  pun'  note  to  a  man  like 
me,  with  expensive  tastes,  and  who  has  not  set  foot  on  Brit- 
ish soil  for  two  years  ?  Not  a  jewel  would  she  part  with — 
all  Sir  Victor's  presents,  forsooth  I  And  she's  in  love  with 
Sir  Victor,  you  know.  Perhaps  you  doiit  know,  though. 
'Pon  my  life,  she  is,  Ethel,  and  means  to  have  him  yet,  too. 
That's  what  she  says,  and  she  is  a  girl  to  do  as  she  says,  is 
Inez.  That's  why  I'm  here  to-niglit,  my  dear.  I  can't  go 
to  Sir  Victor,  you  understand — motives  of  delicacy,  and  all 
that — so  I  waited  my  chance,  and  have  come  to  you.  You 
may  be  fickle,  but  I  don't  think  you're  stingy.  And  some- 
thing is  due  to  my  outraged  feelings,  blighted  affections,  and 
all  that.  Give  me  five  hundred  pounds,  Ethel,  and  let  us 
call  it  square."  • 

He  came  nearer,  his  big,  brown  hand  outstretched.  She 
shrank  away,  hatred  and  repulsion  in  her  face. 

"  Stand  back  !  "  she  said.  "  Don't  come  near  me,  Juan 
Catheron  !  How  dare  you  intrude  here  !  How  dare  you 
speak  to  me  I  " 

"  How  dare  I  ?  Oh,  come  now,  I  say,  I  like  that.  If  a 
man  may  not  speak  to  his  own  wife,  to  whom  may\\<i  speak? 
If  it  comes  to  tliat,  how  dare  you  throw  me  over,  and  com- 
mit bigamy,  and  marry  Sir  Victor  Catheron  ?     It's  of  no  use 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT. 


49 


your  riding  the  high  horse  with  me,  Ethel ;  yon  had  better 
give  me  the  five  hundred — I'm  sure  I'm  moderate  enough — 
and  let  me  go." 

"I  will  not  give  you  a  farthing;  and  if  you  do  not  leave 
this  place  instantly,  I  will  call  my  husband.  '*  Oh  !  "  she 
burst  forth,  frantically,  "  between  you  and  your  sister  you 
will  drive  me  mad  !  " 

"Will  you  give  me  the  money?"  asked  Juan  Catheron, 
folding  his  arms  and  turning  sullen. 

"1  have  not  got  it.  What  money  have  I? — and  if  I  had, 
I  say  I  would  not  give  you  a  farthing.     J'.i-gone  1  or — " 

"  You  have  diamonds."  lie  pointed  to  her  hands. 
"They  will  do — easily  convertible  in  London.  Hand  them 
here,  or,  by  all  the  gods,  I'll  blow  the  story  of  your  bigamy 
all  over  England  !  " 

"  You  will  not  ! "  she  cried,  her  eyes  flashing  in  the  twi- 
light— "you  coward!  you  dare  not!  Sir  Victor  has_>w/  in 
his  power,  and  he  will  keep  his  threat.  Speak  one  word  of 
that  vile  lie,  and  your  tongue  will  be  silenced  in  Chesholm 
jail.  Leave  me,  I  say  !  " — she  stamped  her  foot  passion- 
alely — "  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  Juan  Catheron  1  " 

"And  you  will  not  give  me  the  jewels  ?" 

"Not  one — not  to  keep  you  from  si)reading  your  slander 
from  end  to  end  of  England  !  Do  your  worst  ! — you  can- 
not make  me  more  wretched  than  I  am.  And  go,  or  I  will 
call  for  help,  and  see  whether  my  husband  has  not  courage 
to  keep  his  word." 

"  You  will  not  give  me  the  rings  ?  " 

"  Not  to  save  your  life  !  Hark  !  some  one  is  coming  ! 
Now  you  will  see  which  of  us  is  afraid  of  the  other  !  " 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  a  dangerous  gleam  in  his  black 
eyes. 

"  Very  well !  "  he  said  ;  "  so  be  it !  Don't  trouble  your- 
self to  call  your  hero  of  a  husband — I'm  going.  You're  a 
plucky  little  thing  after  all,  Ethel.  I  don't  know  but  that  I 
rather  admire  your  spirit.  Adieu,  my  dear,  until  we  meet 
again." 

He  swung  round,  and  v-!,nishcd  among  the  trees.  He  was 
actually  singing  as  he  went, 

"  To-day  for  me. 

To-morrow  for  thee — 

But  will  that  to-morrow  ever  be  ?  " 


50 


IN   THE   MOONLIGHT. 


The  last  rustle  of  the  laurels  died  away  ;  all  was  still  ;  the 
twilight  was  closing  darkness,  and,  wilh  a  shudder,  Ethel 
turned  to  go. 

"  ]>ut  will  that  to-morrow  ever  be?" — the  refrain  of  the 
doggerel  rung  in  her  ears.  "  Aui  1  never  to  be  free  from 
this  brother  and  sister?"  she  cried  to  herself,  desperate!)',  as 
she  advanced  to  the  house.  "Am  1  never  to  be  free  from 
this  bondage  ?  " 

As  the  last  llutter  of  her  white  dress  disappeared.  Sir  Victor 
Catheron  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  tlie  trees,  and  the 
face,  on  which  the  rising  moon  shone,  was  white  as  the  face  of 
death. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


IN  THE    MOONLIGHT. 


E  had  not  overheard  a  word,  he  had  not  tried  to 
overhear  ;  but  he  had  seen  them  together — that 
was  enough.  He  had  reached  tlie  spot  only  a  mo- 
ment before  their  parting,  and  had  stood  con- 
founded at  sight  of  his  wife  alone  here  in  the  dusk  with  Juan 
Catheron. 

He  saw  them  part — saw  him  dash  through  the  woodland, 
singing  as  he  went — saw  her  turn  away  and  walk  ra]:)idly  to 
the  house.  She  had  come  here  to  me.-t  iiim,  then,  her 
former  lover.  He  had  not  1 'ft  Cheshohn  ;  he  was  lurking 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Royals,  and  she  knew  it.  She 
knew  it.  How  many  times  had  they  met  before — liis  wife 
and  the  man  he  abhorred — the  man  who  claimed  her  as  his 
wife.  What  if  she  zoire  his  wife  ?  \Vhat  if  that  plight 
l)ledged  in  the  Scotch  kirk  were  binding  ?  She  had  loved 
Juan  Catheron  then.  W'hat  if  she  loved  him  still  ?  She  had 
hidden  it  from  him,  until  it  could  be  hidden  no  longer — she 
had  deceived  him  in  the  past,  she  was  deceiving  liim  iii  llv? 
l)resent.  So  fair  and  so  false,  so  innocent  to  all  outward 
seeming.     Yet  so  lost  to  all  truth  and  lienor. 

He  turned  sick  and  giddy  j  he  leaned  against  a  tree,  feel- 


IN.  TflF.   MOONrJGfTT. 


SI 


-she 


.■l- 


ing  ns  ihoiigh  he  could  never  look  iiiion  her  false  face  again. 
Yi't  the  ni.'xt  moment  he  stalled  pas  ionatcly  up. 

"  1  will  }i;o  to  her,"  he  tliought  ;  "  I  will  liear  what  she  lias 
to  sny.  ir  bl^c  voUmtarily  tells  me,  I  mu^t,  1  will  believe  her. 
If  she  is  silent,  1  will  lake  it  as  proof  of  her  guilt." 

lie  strode  away  to  the  house.  As  he  entered,  his  man 
Edwards  met  him,  and  [)ri\sentrd  him  a  note. 

"  Brought  by  a  groom  iVom  I'owyss  I'lace,  Sir  Victor,"  he 
said.     "  S(iuire  I'owyss  has  had  a  stroke." 

The  baronet  tore  it  open — it  was  an  impetuous  summons 
from  Lady  Helena. 

"  The  scjuire  has  had  an  attack  of  apoplexy.  For 
Heaven's  sake  come  at  once," 

He  crushed  it  in  his  hand,  and  went  into  the  dining-room. 
His  wife  was  not  there.  He  turned  to  the  nursery  ;  he  was 
pretty  sure  of  always  finding  her  iJwre. 

She  was  there,  bending  over  her  baby,  looking  fair  and 
sweet  as  the  babe  it^,elf.  Fair  and  sweet  surely.  Yet  why, 
if  innocent,  that  nervous  start  at  sight  of  him — that  fright- 
ened look  in  the  blue  eyes.  The  nurse  stood  at  a  distance, 
but  he  did  not  heed  her. 

"A  sununons  from  Powyss  Place,"  he  said;  "  the  poor 
old  squire  has  had  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  This  is  the  second 
within  the  year,  and  may  j^rove  fatal.  I  must  go  at  once. 
It  is  not  likely  I  shall  return  to-night." 

She  looked  at  him,  startled  by  his  deadly  paleness  ;  but 
then,  perhaps,  the  summons  accounted  for  that.  She  mur- 
nnired  her  regrets,  then  bent  again  over  her  baby. 

"You  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Ethel,  before  I  go?" 
he  said,  looking  at  her  steadily. 

She  half  lifted  her  head,  the  words  half-rose  to  her  lips. 
She  glanced  at  the  distant  nurse,  who  was  still  busy  in  the 
room,  glanced  at  her  husband's  pale  set  face,  and  they  died 
away  again.  Why  detain  him  now  in  his  haste  and  trouble? 
Why  rouse  his  rage  against  Juan  Catheron  at  this  inoi)])or- 
tunetiine?  No,  she  would  wait  until  tomorrow — nothing 
could  be  done  now ;  then  she  would  reveal  that  intrusion  in 
tlie  grounds. 

"  1  have  nothing  to  say,  except  good-by.  I  hope  poor 
Mr.  Powyss  may  not  be  so  ill  as  )ou  fear." 

He  turned  away— a  tumult  of  jealous  rage  within  him.    A 


52 


IX   THE   MOONLIGHT. 


deliberate  lie  he  thon;;ht  it ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  of 
her  guilt  now.  And  yet,  insanely  inconsistent  as  it  seems, 
he  hud  never  loved  her  moie  passionately  than  in  that 
hour. 

He  turned  to  go  without  awoid.  He  had  reached  the 
door.  All  at  once  he  turned  back,  caught  her  in  his  arms 
almost  fiercely,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said,  "  my  wile,  my  love — good  by." 

His  vehemence  fii;;htencd  her.  She  releascil  herself  and 
looked  at  him,  her  heart  tluttering.  A  second  time  he 
walked  to  the  door — a  second  time  he  paused.  Something 
seemed  to  stay  his  feet  on  the  llnc-shold. 

"  You  will  think  me  foolish,  Mthel,"  he  said,  with  a  forced 
laugh;  "but  I  seem  afraid  to  leave  you  to-night.  Nervous 
folly,  I  suppose;  but  take  care  of  yourself,  my  darling,  until 
I  return.  I  shall  be  back  at  the  earliest  possible  mo- 
ment." 

Then  he  was  gone. 

She  crossed  over  to  the  low  French  window,  standing 
wide  open,  and  looked  after  him  wistfully. 

"Dear  Victor,"  she  thought,  "how  fond  he  is  of  me,  after 
all." 

The  n)oon  was  shining  brightly  now,  though  the  day  still 
lingered.  She  stood  and  watched  him  out  of  siglu.  Once, 
as  he  rode  away,  he  turned  back — she  kissed  and  waved  lur 
hand  to  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Poor  Victor  ! "  she  thought  again,  "  he  loves  me  so 
dearly  that  I  ought  to  forgive  him  everything.  How  happy 
we  might  be  here  together,  if  it  were  not  for  that  horrible 
brother  and  sister.  I  wish — I  wish  he  would  send  her 
away." 

She  lingered  by  the  window,  fascinated  by  the  brilliancy 
of  the  rising  September  moon.  As  she  stood  there,  the 
nursery  door  opened,  and  Miss  Catheron  entered. 

"  You  here,"  she  said,  coolly  ;  "  I  didn't  know  it.  I 
wanted  Victor.  J  thought  I  heard  his  voice.  And  how  is 
the  heir  of  Catheron  Royals  ?" 

She  bent,  with  her  usual  slight,  chill  smile  over  the  crib  of 
that  young  gentleman,  and  regarded  him  in  his  sleep.  The 
nurse,  listening  in  the  dusk,  she  did  not  perceive. 

"  Jiy  the  bye,  1  wonder  if  he  is  the  heir  cf  Catheron  Royals 


IN   THE  MOONLIGHT. 


53 


though?  I  ;un  iciuHiig  up  the  Scottish  Law  of  Marriage, 
and  really  I  have  iny  doubts.  If  you  are  Juan's  wife,  you 
can't  hi;  Sir  Victor's,  consequently  the  Kgitiinacy  of  his  son 
may  yet  he — " 

She  never  finished  the  sentence.  It  was  the  last  drop  in 
the  I)iii.)iiiiii;^  cup — the  straw  that  broke  the  camel's  back — 
thi;  one  nisuit  of  all  others  not  to  be  borne.  With  eyes  afire 
in  the  dusk,  Sir  Victor's  wife  confronted  her. 

"You  iiave  uttered  your  last  affront,  Inez  Catheron,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  You  will  never  utter  another  benriuh  this  roof. 
To-morrow  you  leave  it !  I  am  Sir  Victor  (  aheron's  wife, 
the  mistress  of  Catheron  Royals,  and  this  is  the  last  night 
it  shall  ever  shelter  you.  (lo  !  "  Slie  threw  open  the  nurs- 
ery door.  "  When  my  husband  returns  either  you  or  1  leave 
this  house  forever  !  " 

The  nurse  was  absolutely  forgotten.  For  a  second  even 
Inez  Catheron  quailed  before  the  storm  she  had  raised  ;  then 
black  eyes  met  blue,  with  defiant  scorn. 

"Not  all  the  soap-boiler's  daughters  in  London  or  Eng- 
land shall  send  me  from  Catheron  l\.o)aIs  I  Not  ail  the  Miss 
Di)bbs  that  ever  bore  that  distinguished  appellation  shall 
drive  ine  forth.  You  may  go  to-morrow  if  you  will.  I 
fehall  not." 

She  swept  from  the  room,  with  eyes  that  blazed,  and  voice 
that  rang.  And  Jane  I'ool,  the  nurse,  thinking  she  had 
heard  a  little  too  much,  softly  opened  an  opposite  door  and 
stole  out. 

"  Good  Lor'  !  "  she  thought,  ••  here  be  a  pretty  flare  up  ! 
Ain't  Miss  Inez  just  got  a  temper  though.  I  wouldn't  stand 
in  my  lady's  shoes,  and  her  a-iiating  me  so  ;  no,  not  for  all 
her  money,  I'll  go  down  and  get  my  supper,  and  call  for 
Master  15aby  by  and  by." 

Mrs.  Pool  descended  to  the  servants'  hall,  to  narrate,  of 
course  in  confidence,  to  her  most  particular  friends,  the 
scene  she  had  just  overheard.  Tiiere  was  Welsh  rabbits  for 
supjier — nurse  was  particularly  fond  of  Welsii  rabbits — and 
in  discussing  it  and  Miss  Inez's  awful  temper  half  an  hour 
sli))ped  away.  Then  she  arose  again  to  see  after  her 
charge. 

"  Which  he  should  have  been  undressed  and  tucked  away 
for  the  night  half  an  hour  ago,  bless  him,"  she  remarked  ; 


54 


IN  THE  MOONLIGIir. 


"  but  I  could  not  make  up  my  miijcl  to  flice  my  lady  after 
Hiat  row.  Poor  thip'j;!  It  does  seem  hard  no'v  she  can't  l)c 
mistress  in  her  own  'ouse.  It's  a  pity  Sir  Victor  can't  turn 
Turk  and  marry  'em  both,  since  he  can't  abear  to  part 
with  neither." 

Mrs.  Pool  made  her  exit  and  wended  her  way  to  the 
nursery.  She  tajiped  at  the  door — there  was  no  reply 
— slie  opened  it  and  went  in — my  lady  had  quitted  it,  no 
doubt. 

No — to  her  surprise  my  lady  was  still  there.  The  window 
still  stood  wide  open,  the  white,  piercing  moonlight  streamed 
in.  An  arm-chair  stood  near  this  window,  and  lying  back  in 
the  arm-chair  was  my  lady,  fast  aslee;). 

Fast  asleep.  Jane  Pool  tiptoed  over  to  make  sure.  She 
was  pale  as  the  moonlight  itself.  Her  li|)s  quivered  as  she 
slept  like  the  lips  of  a  hurt  child,  her  eyelashes  were  yet  wet 
with  tears.  Sitting  there  alone  she  had  cried  herself  to 
sleep. 

"  Poor  thing  ! "  Jane  Pool  said  again.  She  was  so 
you"ng,  so  pretty,  so  gentle,  that  all  the  household  loved  her. 
"  Poor  dear  thing  !  1  say  it's  a  biwning  shame  for  Sir  Victor, 
so  fond  as  he  is  of  her  too,  to  let  Miss  Inez  torment  her.  / 
wouldn't  stand  her  hairs  and  her  'aughtiness,  her  temjier  and 
her  tongue ;  no,  not  to  be  ten  baronets'  ladies,  ten  times 
hover  !" 

In  his  pretty  blue  silk,  white  lace,  and  carved  rosewood 
nest.  Master  Victor  lay  still,  sleeping  also.  Mrs.  Pool  softly 
folded  a  shawl  around  her  lady's  shoulders,  lifted  babe  with- 
out awakening  him,  and  stule  softly  out.  The  night  nursery 
was  an  upjier  room.  Jane  Pool  carried  hini  up,  disrobed 
him,  fed  him,  and  tucked  him  up  for  the  night.  He  fell 
again  asleep  almost  instantly.  She  summoned  the  under 
nur.se-maid  to  remain  with  him,  and  went  back  to  the  lower 
regions.  Half  an  hour  had  i)asscd  since  she  left;  it  struck 
the  half  hour  pTter  eiglit  a',  she  descended  the  stairs. 

"I'm  sore  afraid  my  iady  will  catch  cold  sleeping  in  the 
night  air.  I  do  tliink  now  I  ought  to  go  in  and  wake 
her." 

While  she  stood  hesitating  before  it,  the  door  opened 
suddenly  and  Miss  Catheron  came  out.  She  was  very  pale. 
Jane  Pool  was  struck  by  il,  and  the  scarlet  shawl  she  wore 


« 


■I 


IN  Tilt:   MOONLIGHT. 


55 


twisted  about  her,  made  her  face  look  ahnost  ghaslly  in 
tlic  lamplight. 

"  You  here?"  she  said,  in  her  haughty  way.  "What  do 
you  want  ?     Where  is  baby  ?  " 

"IJaby's  asleep,  miss,  for  the  night,"  Jane  answered,  with 
a  stiff  Utile  curtsey  ;  "and  what  I'm  liere  for,  is  to  wake  my 
lady.  Sleejiing  in  a  draught  cannot  be  good  for  anybody. 
But  ]>erhaps  she  is  awake." 

"  You  will  let  my  lady  alone,"  said  Miss  Catheron  sharply, 
"and  attend  to  your  nursery.  She  is  asleep  still.  It  is  not 
your  place  to  disturl)  her.     Go  !  " 

"Drat  her!"  Nurse  Pool  exclaimed  inwardly,  obeying, 
however;  "she's  tiiat 'aughty  and  that  stuck  up,  that  she 
thinks  we're  the  dirt  under  her  feet.  I  only  hope  she'll  be 
'^ent  packing  to-morrow,  but  I  has  my  doubts.  Sir  Victor's 
afraid  of  her — anybody  can  see  that  with  half  an  eye." 

She  descended  to  the  servants'  regions  again,  and  encoun- 
tered Ellen,  Lady  Calheron's  smart  maid,  sociably  drinking 
tea  with  the  housekeeper.  And  once  more  into  their  at- 
tcritivc  ears  she  poured  forth  this  addenda  to  her  previous 
narrative. 

"  What  was  Miss  Inez  doing  in  there  ?"  demanded  the 
maid  ;  "  no,  good,  I'll  be  bound.  She  hates  my  lady  like 
posion  ;  Sir  Victor  jilted  her,  you  know,  and  she's  in  love 
with  him  yet.  My  lady  s/iall  be  woke  up  in  si)ite  of  her  ; 
she'd  like  her  to  get  her  death  in  the  night  air,  1  dare  say. 
I've  an  easy  missis  anil  a  good  place,  and  I  mean  to  keep 
'em.  I  ain't  afraid  of  Miss  Inez's  black  eyes  and  sharp 
tongue  ;  I'll  go  and  wake  my  lady  up." 

She  hnished  her  tea  and  left.  Siie  reacl.^-d  the  nursery 
door  and  rapped  as  Nurse  Pool  had  doiv.;.  There  was  no 
rei)ly.     She  turned  the  handle  softly  and  went  in. 

The  large,  crystal,  clear  moon  was  high  in  the  sky  now  ;  its 
chill  brightness  filled  the  room.  The  arm-chair  still  stood 
under  the  window ;  the  small  figure  of  my  lady  still  lay 
n)Otionless  in  it. 

"  Afy  lady,"  Ellen  said  gently,  advancing,  "  please  wake- 
up." 

There  was  no  reply,  no  stir.     She  bent  closer  over  her. 

"  Please,  my  lady,  wake  up ;  I'm  afraid  you'll  catcli  your 
deatli  of  — " 


56  ///  THE  NURSERY, 

The  words  ended  in  a  shriek  tlirvt  ranj;  ihroiipjh  the  lionsc 
from  end  to  ciul — a  woman's  sin  ill,  car-splitliiig  sin  irk.  She- 
had  laid  her  hand  ujion  my  lady's  bosom  to  arouse  iier  ;  she 
snatched  it  away  and  sjirang  hack  in  horror.  yVsleej)  1  Yes, 
tile  sicep  that  knows  no  wakmi;.  Sir  Victor  Calheron's 
l)retfy  youni^  wife  lay  there  in  tiie  moonlight— dead. 

Dead!  There  is  blood  on  the  white  dress,  blood  on  the 
b'ae  s'lawl,  blood  on  I'dlen's  hancl,  blootl  tiiekliiiL;  in  a  small 
red  stream  from  under  the  left  breast,  lOihel,  Lady  Cath- 
eron,  lies  there  before  her  in  the  moonlight  stone  dead — 
foully  murdered. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


IN   THE    NURSERY. 


jTIE  stands  for  a  moment  paralyzed — struck. dumb 
by  a  horror  too  great  for  word  or  cry.  Then  she 
rushes  to  the  door,  along  the  passages,  into  the 
midst  of  the  startled  household  like  a  mad  creature, 
shrieking  that  one  most  awful  word,  "  Murder  !" 

They  tlock  around  her,  they  catch  hold  of  her,  and  keep 
her  still  by  main  force.  They  ask  her  (juestions,  but  she 
only  screams  still  that  ghastly  word,  "  Murder  !  " 

"  Who  is  murdered  ?  \V'here — what  do  you  mean  ?  Good 
Lord  !  young  woman,"  cries  Mr.  Hooper,  the  butler,  giving 
her  a  shake,  "  do  come  out  of  tliese  hysterics  if  )0U  can,  and 
speak  !      M'hJ s  inurdered  ?  " 

"  i\ry  lady  !  Oh,  my  lady  !  my  lady  !  my  lady  !  " 

She  is  like  a  creature  distraught.  There  is  blood  on  her 
riglit  hand;  she  sees  it,  and  with  a  gasping  cry  at  the  grisly 
sight,  and  before  they  know  what  she  is  about,  she  falls 
down  in  a  faint  in  their  midst. 

They  lift  her  up  ;  they  look  into  one  anoth.er's  i^ale  faces. 

"  My  lady ! "  they  repeat,  in  an  awe-struck  whisper. 
''Murdered!'' 

"  Here  I  "  cries  Mr.  Hooper,  his  dignity  coming  to  his  aid, 
"let  us  investigate  this  here.     Lay  this  young  wcunan  Hat 


IN  THE  NURHERY. 


57 


on  her  back  on  the  floor,  sjirinkle  her  with  water,  and  let  her 
come  to.     I'm  goiiiLj  to  find  out  wliat  she  means." 

'1  hey  lay  poor  Ellen  stif.ly  out  as  directed,  some  one 
dashes  water  into  her  face,  then  in  a  body,  with  Mr.  Hooper 
at  their  h'jad,  they  march  off  to  inve^tigate. 

"She  was  in  the  day-nursery,"  Nurse  Pool  suggests,  in  a 
whisper,  and  to  the  day-nursery  they  go. 

On  the  threshold  for  a  second  or  two  they  halt,  their 
courage  failing.  I5ut  there  is  nothing  very  terrifying.  Only 
the  solemn  moonlight,  only  the  motionless  little  figure  in 
the  arm-chair.  And  yet  a  great  awe  holds  them  back. 
Does  death — does  murrler  stand  grisly  in  their  midst  ? 

"  Let  us  go  in,  in  the  name  of  Providence,"  says  Mr. 
Hooper,  a  tremble  in  his  voice;  "it — it  can't  be  what  she 
says.     O  good  Lord,  no  !  " 

They  go  forward  on  tiptoe,  as  if  afraid  of  awakening  that 
quiet  sleeper  whom  only  the  last  trump  will  evtr  awake  now. 
They  bend  above  her,  holding  their  breath.  Ves,  there  it  i  > 
— the  blood  that  is  soaking  her  dress  '  ipping  horribly  on 
the  cari)ct — oo-^ing  slowly  from  that  crin  i  wound. 

A  gasi)ing,  inarticulate  soit  of  groan  C'  nes  heavilv  from 
every  lip.  Old  Hooper  takes  her  wrist  between  his  -haking 
fingers.  Stilled  forever,  already  with  the  awfui  chill  of 
death.  In  the  crystal  light  of  the  moon  the  sweet  )  >ung 
face  has  never  looked  fairer,  calmer,  more  peaceful  than 
now. 

The  old  Initler  straightens  himself  up,  ashen  gray. 

"It's  too  true,"  he  says,  with  a  sort  of  sob.  "O  Lord, 
have  mercy  on  us — it's  too  true  !  She's  dead  !  She's  mur- 
dered !  " 

He  drops  the  wrist  he  holds,  the  litde  jewelled,  dead  hand 
falls  limp  and  heavy.  He  jiuts  his  own  hands  over  his  face 
and  sobs  aloud  : 

"  Who  Will  tell  Sir  Victor  ?  O  my  master  I  my  dear 
young  master ! " 

No  one  speaks — a  spell  of  great  horror  has  fallen  upon 
them.  Murdered  in  their  midst,  in  their  peaceful  household 
— they  cannot  eomjjrchend  it.     At  last — 

"  Where  is  Miss  Catlicron  i  "  asks  a  sombre  voice. 

No  one  knows  who  speaks ;  no  one  seems  to  care ;  no 
one  dare  reply. 

3* 


5S 


IN  THE   NURSERY. 


"Where  is  Inez  Catheron  ?"  the  voice  says  again. 

Somcihing  in  tlic  tone,  sonietliing  in  the  ghastly  i-il'-nce 
that  follows,  seems  to  arouse  the  butler,  Fiuce  his  tenth 
year  he  has  been  in  the  service  of  the  Catherons — his  father 
bjfore  him  was  butler  in  this  house.  Their  honor  is  his. 
He  starts  angrily  rounil  now. 

"  Who  was  that  ?  "  he  demands.  "  Of  course  Miss  Inez 
knows  nothing  of  this." 

No  one  had  accused  her,  but  lie  is  unconsciously  defend- 
ing her  already. 

"She  must  be  told  at  once,"  he  says.  "  I'll  go  and  tell 
her  myself.  Edwards,  draw  the  curtains,  will  you,  and  light 
the  candles?" 

He  leaves  the  room.  The  valet  mechanicallv  does  as  he 
is  bid — the  curtains  arc  drawn,  the  waxlights  illumine  the 
ai)artment.  No  one  else  stirs.  The  soft,  abundant  light 
falls  down  upon  that  tranquil,  marble  face — upon  that  most 
awful  stain  of  blood. 

The  butler  goes  straight  up  to  his  young  lady's  room. 
Wayward,  passionate,  proud  Aliss  Inez  may  be,  but  she  is 
very  dear  to  him.  He  has  carried  her  in  liis  arizis  many  a 
time,  a  little  laughing,  black-eyed  child.  A  vague,  sicken- 
ing fear  fills  him  now. 

"  She  hated  my  lady,"  he  thinks,  in  a  dazed,  hcli)less  sort 
of  way;  "  everybody  knows  that, 
she  hears  this?" 

He  knocks  ;  there  is  no  rei'ly. 
calls  huskily  : 

"Miss  Inez,  are  you  there?  Tor  the  dear  Lord's  sake 
open  the  door  1 " 

"  Come  in  !  "  a  voice  answers. 

He  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  Miss  Inez  or  not.  He  0[)ens 
the  door  and  enters. 

This  room  is  unlit  too — the  shine  of  the  moon  fills  it  as 
it  fills  that  other  room  below.  Here  too  a  solitary  figure 
sits,  crouches,  rather,  near  the  window  in  a  'range,  distorted 
attitude  of  jjain.  He  knows  the  llowing  bi  ick  hair,  the  scar- 
let wrap — he  cannot  see  her  face,  she  do*.  .^  not  look  round. 

"Miss  Inez!" — his  voice  shakes-  "  1  bring  you  bad 
news,  awful  news.  Don't  be  shocked  but — a  murder  has 
been  done." 


What  will  she  say  when 
He  knocks  again  and 


) 


IN  THE  NURSERY. 


59 


There  is  no  answer.  If  she  hears  him  she  does  not  heed. 
She  just  sits  still  and  looks  out  into  the  night. 

"  Miss  Inez  !  you  hear  me  ?  " 

He  comes  a  little  nearer — he  tries  to  sec  her  face. 

"  You  hear  me  ?  "  he  repeats. 

"  I  hear  you." 

The  words  drop  like  ice  from  her  Ups.  One  hand  is 
clutching  the  arm  of  her  chair — her  wide-open  black  eyes 
never  turn  from  the  niglit-scene. 

"My  lady  is  dead — cruelly  murdered.  O  Miss  Inez! 
do  you  hear  ? — murdered  !     What  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

She  does  not  answer.  Her  li|)s  move,  but  no  word  comes. 
An  awful  fear  begins  to  fill  tlie  faithful  servant's  lieart. 

"  Miss  Inez  !  "  he  cries  out,  "you  tnusl  come — they  are 
waiting  for  you  below.  There  is  no  one  here  but  you — Sir 
Victor  is  away.     Sir  Victor — " 

His  voice  breaks  ;  he  takes  out  his  handkerchief  and  sobs 
like  a  child. 

"  My  dear  young  master  !  My  dear  young  master  !  •  He 
loved  the  very  ground  she  walked  on.  Oh,  who  is  to  tell 
him  this  ?  " 

She  rises  slowly  now,  like  one  who  is  cramped,  and  stiff, 
and  cold.  She  looks  at  the  old  man.  In  her  eyes  there  is 
a  blind,  dazed  sort  of  horror — on  her  face  there  is  a  ghast- 
liness  no  words  can  describe. 

"Who  is  to  tell  Sir  Victor?"  the  butler  repeats.  "It 
will  kill  him — the  horror  of  it.  So  pretty  and  so  young — so 
sweet  and  so  good.  Oh,  how  could  they  do  it — how  could 
they  do  it  I " 

She  tries  to  speak  once  more — it  seems  as  though  her 
white  lips  cannot  shape  the  words.  Old  Hooper  looks  up 
at  her  pitcously. 

"  Tell  us  what  is  to  be  done,  Miss  Inez,"  he  implores ; 
"you  are  mistress  here  now." 

She  shrinks  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"  Shall  we  send  for  Sir  Victor  first  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  in  a  sort  of  whisper,  "  send  for  Sir 
Victor  first." 

The  voice  in  which  she  speaks  is  not  the  voice  of  Inez 
Catheron.  The  butler  looks  at  her,  that  great  fear  in  liis 
eyes. 


6o 


IN  THE  NURSERY. 


"You  haven't  seen  lu-r,  Miss  Inez,"  he  says. 
fcaiTul  si'jht— but — will  vou  come  down?" 


It  is   a 


ile  almost  dreads  a  tcliisal,  but  siie  does  not  refuse. 


turns  at  once  to  go. 


"  1  will  go  down,"  she  answers,  anc 

The  servants  stand  huildled  together  in  the  centre  ol'  the 
room.  //  lies  there,  in  its  dreadfid  (juiet,  before  them. 
Ever  eye  turns  darkly  upon  Miss  Catheron  as  she  comes 
in. 

She  never  sees  them.  She  advances  like  a  sleep-walker, 
that  dazed,  dumb  horror  still  in  her  eyes,  the  whiteness  of 
death  on  her  face.  She  walks  over  and  looks  down  upon 
the  dead  mistress  of  Catheron  Rovals.  No  change  comes 
over  her — she  softens  neither  into  jiity  nor  tears.  So  long 
she  stands  there,  so  rigid  she  looks,  so  threatening  are 
the  eyes  that  watch  her,  that  Hooper  interposes  hig  portly 
figure  between  her  and  them. 

"  Miss  Inez,"  he  says,  "will  you  please  give  your  orders? 
Shall  I  send  for  Sir  Victor  at  once,  or — " 

"  Yes,  send  for  Sir  Victor  at  once."  She  arouses  herself 
to  say  it.  "  And  I  think  you  had  better  send  to  Cheshohu 
for  a  doctor  and — and  the  police." 

"  The  police  !  " 

"  A  murder  has  been  committed,"  she  says,  in  a  cold,  hard 
voice  ;  "  the  murderer  must  be  found." 

Something  of  her  old  calm,  stately  haughtiness  returns  as 
she  s|)eaks, 

"  This  room  tnust  be  cleared.  Let  no  one  touch  her^^ 
she  shudders  and  looks  away,  "  until  Sir  Victor  comes. 
Ellen,  Pool,  Hooper,  you  three  had  better  remain  to  watch. 
Edwards,  mount  the  fastest  horse  in  the  stables  and  ride  to 
Powyss  Place  for  your  life." 

"Yes,  miss,"  Edwards  answers,  in  a  low  voice;  "and 
please,  miss,  am  I  to  tell  Sir  Victor?" 

She  hesitates  a  moment — her  face  changes,  her  voice 
shakes  a  little  for  the  first  time. 

"  Yes,"  sh.e  answers,  faintly,  "  tell  him," 

ICdwards  leaves  the  room.  She  turns  to  another  of  the 
men  servants. 

"  You  will  ride  to  Chesholm  and  fetch  Dr.  Dane.  On 
your  way  stop  at  the  police  station  and  apprise  them.  The 
rest  of  you  go.    Jane  Pool,  where  is  the  baby  ?  " 


IN  THE  NURSERY. 


6l 


iC 


"  Up  sfairs  in  the  night  nursery,"  Jane  Pool  answerii  sul- 
lenly. 

"  And  crying,  too — 1  hear  him.  Hannah,"  to  the  under 
nurse,  "go  up  and  remain  with  him.  I  am  going  to  my  own 
rooMi.  W'h  Ml,"  slie  pauses  a  second  and  s]K'ai<s  with  an  ef- 
fort, "when  Sir  Victor  comes,  you  will  receive  your  further 
orders  from  him.     I  can  do  nothing  more." 

She  left  the  room.     Jane  Pool  looked  ominously  after  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  between  her  set  lips  ;  "  you  have  done 
enough." 

"  Oh,  Jane,  hush  !"  l"'Jlen  whispers  in  terror. 

There  has  still  been  no  direct  accusation,  but  they  under- 
stand each  other  ]ierfectly. 

"  When  the  time  comes  to  speak,  you'll  see  whether  Pll 
hush,"  retorts  Jane.  "  What  was  she  doing  in  this  room 
fifteen  minutes  before  you  found  my  lady  dead  ?  A\'hy 
wouldn't  she  let  me  in?  why  did  slie  tell  me  a  lie?  what 
made  her  say  my  lady  was  still  asleep  ?  Asleep  !  Oh,  poor 
soul,  to  think  of  her  being  murdered  here,  while  we  were  all 
enjoying  ourselves  below.  And  if  I  hadn't  took  away  the 
baby  its  my  opinion  it  would  iiave  been — " 

"  Oh,  Jane  !  " 

" '  Oh,  Jane,'  as  much  as  you  plecse,  it's  the  gospel  truth. 
Them  that  killed  the  mother  hated  the  child.  When  tlie 
time  comes  I'll  speak,  if  she  was  twice  the  lady  she  is, 
Ellen  I  " 

"Lor!"  Ellen  cried  with  a  nervous  jump,  "don't  speak 
so  jerky  Mrs.  Pool.  You  make  my  blood  a  mask  of  ice. 
"What  is  it?" 

"Ellen,"  Jane  Pool  said  solemnly,  "  where  is  the  dagger  ?" 

"  What  dagger  ?  " 

"  The  furrin  dagger  with  the  gold  handle  and  the  big  ruby 
set  in  it,  that  my  lady  used  as  a  paper  knife.  Pll  take  my 
oath  I  saw  it  lying  on  the  table  there,  shining  in  the  moon- 
light, when  I  took  away  baby.     Where  is  it  now  ?" 

The  dagger  the  muse  spoke  of,  was  a  curious  Eastern 
knife,  that  had  belonged  to  Sir  Victor's  mother.  It  had  a 
long,  keen  steel  blade,  a  slim  handle  of  wrought  gold  set  with 
a  large  ruby.  Sir  Victor's  wife  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the 
pretty  Syrian  toy,  and  converted  it  into  a  paper  knife. 

"I  saw  it  on  that  there  table  when  I  took  away  baby," 


62 


IN    THE  DARKNESS. 


Jano  said  compressing  her  lips;  "/'/  would  do  it.     Where  is 
it  now  ?  " 

"  (lone,"  Ellen  answered.  "  Oli,  Jane  do  you  think — " 
"She  has  been  stabbed,  you  see,  right  througli  the  heart, 
and  there  isn't  much  blood.  That  devilish  little  glittering 
knife  has  done  the  deed.  There  it  was  ready  for  its  work,  as 
if  Satan  himself  had  left  it  handy.  Oh,  poor  lady — i)oor 
lady  !  to  think  that  the  toy  she  used  to  play  with,  should  one 
day  take  her  life  !  " 

While  they  whispered  in  the  death  room,  up  in  her  cham- 
ber, while  the  hours  of  the  dreary  night  wore  on,  Inez  Cath- 
eron  sat,  crouched  in  a  heap,  as  Hooper  had  found  her,  her 
face  hidden  in  her  hands.  Two  hours  had  passed,  an  awful 
silence  filled  the  whole  house,  while  she  sat  there  and  never 
stirred.  As  eleven  struck  from  the  turret  clock,  the  thunder 
of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  avenue  below,  came  to  her  dulled 
ears.  A  great  shudder  shook  her  from  head  to  foot — she 
lifted  her  haggard  face.  The  lull  before  the  storm  was  over 
— Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  come. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 


IN   THE    DARKNESS. 


ALF  an  hour's  rapid  gallop  had  brought  Edwards, 
the  valet,  to  Powyss  Place.  The  stately  mansion, 
park,  lawn,  and  terraces,  lay  bathed  in  the  silvery 
shower  of  moonlight.  From  the  ui)per  windows, 
where  the  sick  man  lay,  lights  streamed ;  all  the  rest  of  the 
house  was  in  deep  shadow. 

In  one  of  those  dimly  lighted  rooms  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
lay  upon  a  lounge  fast  asleep.  He  had  remained  for  about 
two  hours  by  the  sick  man's  bedside  ;  then,  persuaded  by  his 
aunt,  had  gone  to  lie  down  in  an  inner  department. 

"  You  look  pale  and  ill  yourself,"  she  had  said,  tenderly ; 
"  lie  down  and  rest  for  a  Uttle.  If  I  need  you,  1  will  call 
you  at  once." 


IN   THE  DARKNESS. 


63 


He  had  obeyed,  and  had  dropped  off  into  a  heavy  sleep. 
A  chill  oppression  of  heart  and  soul  beset  him  ;  he  had  no 
n)ind  to  slumber — it  had  come  ui)on  him  unawares.  He  was 
awakened  suddenly  by  some  one  calling  his  name. 

"Victor!  Victor  !"  the  voice  called,  "awake!" 

He  sat  up  with  a  bewildered  face.  Was  that  his  aunt's 
voice,  so  hoarse,  so  strange  ?  Was  this  his  aunt  with  that 
white,  horror-struck  face  ? 

"  Victor  ! "  she  cried,  the  words  a  very  wail.  "  Oh,  my 
boy  !  my  boy  !  how  shall  I  ever  tell  you  ?  Oh,  why  did  I 
send  for  you  this  dreadful  night?  Ethel" — her  voice 
choked. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  staring  at  her  blankly. 

"  Ethel ! "  he  repeated.     "  Ethel—" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  burst  into  a  hys- 
terical outbreak  of  tears.  Edwards,  standing  behind  her  in 
the  doorway,  made  a  step  forward. 

"  Tell  him,  Edwards,"  said  Lady  Helena.  "  I  cannot.  It 
seems  too  horrible  to  tell  or  to  believe.  Oh,  my  poor  Vic- 
tor !  my  poor,  poor  boy  1 " 

Edwards  came  forward  reluctantly,  with  a  very  pale,  scared 
face. 

"It's  dreadful  news.  Sir  Victor — I  don't  know  how  to  tell 
you,  but  my  lady,  I'm  afraid  she — she's  dead." 

"  Dead  I " 

He  repeated  the  word  dully,  staring  almost  stupidly  at  the 
speaker. 

"  Dead,  Sir  Victor  !  "  the  man  repeated,  solemnly.  "  I'm 
sore  afraid,  murdered  !  " 

There  was  a  sudden,  headlong  rush  from  the  room  ;  no 
other  re]ily.  Like  a  flash  Sir  Victor  passed  them  both. 
Tiiey  heard  him  clear  the  stairs,  rush  along  the  lower  hall, 
and  out  of  the  house.  The  next  instant  the  valet  and  Lady 
Helena  were  in  pursuit. 

He  was  mounted  on  Edwards'  horse  and  dashing  furiously 
away,  before  they  reached  the  court-j'ard.  They  called  to 
him — he  neither  heard  nor  heeded.  He  dashed  his  spurred 
heel  into  the  horse's  side  and  flew  out  of  sight  like  the 
wind. 

"  I'ollow  him  ! "  Lady  Helena  cried,  breathlessly,  to  the 
groom.     "  Overtake  him,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  !     Oh,  7uho 


64 


IN  THE   DARKNESS. 


can  have  done  this  awful  deed?  Fxlwards,  you  arc  sure 
there  is  no  mistake  ?  It  seems  too  unnatural,  too  impossi- 
ble to  believe." 

"There  is  no  mistake,  my  lady,"  the  man  answered,  sadly. 
"  I  saw  her  myself,  the  blood  llowing  where  the^  iiad  stab- 
bed her,  cold  and  dead." 

Lady  Helena  wrung  her  hands  and  turned  away. 

"  Ride  for  your  life  after  your  master !  "  she  said.  "  I 
will  follow  you  as  soon  as  I  can." 

She  went  back  to  iier  husband's  side.  He  was  no  worse 
— he  seemed  if  anything,  better.  She  might  leave  him  in 
her  housekeeper's  charge  until  morning. 

She  ordered  the  carriage  and  rapidly  changed  her  dress. 
It  was  about  one  in  the  morning  when  she  reached  Calheron 
Royals.  The  tall  turrets  were  silvered  in  the  moonlight,  the 
windows  sparkled  in  the  crystal  light.  The  sweet  beauty 
and  peace  of  the  September  night  lay  like  a  benediction 
over  the  earth.  And,  amid  all  the  silence  and  sweetness,  a 
foul,  a  most  horrible  murder  had  been  done. 

She  encountered  Mrs.  Marsh,  the  housekeeper,  in  the 
hall,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping.  Some  dim 
hope  that  up  to  this  time  had  upheld  her,  that,  after  all, 
there  mii^^ht  be  a  mistake,  died  out  then. 

*'  Oh,  M  arsh,"  she  said,  piteously,  "  is  it  true  ?  " 

Mrs.  Marsh's  answer  was  a  fresii  burst  of  tears.  Like  all 
the  rest  of  the  houaehold,  the  gentle  ways,  the  sweet  face, 
and  soft  voice  of  Sir  Victor's  wife  had  won  her  heart  from 
the  first. 

"  It  is  too  true,  my  lady — the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us 
all.  It  seems  too  horrid  for  belief,  but  it  is  true.  As  she 
lay  asleep  there,  four  hours  ago,  in  her  own  house,  surrounded 
by  her  own  servants,  some  monster  in  human  form  stabbed 
her  through  the  heart — through  the  heart,  my  lady — Dr. 
Dane  says  one  blow  did  it,  and  that  death  must  have  been 
instantaneous.  So  young,  so  sweet,  and  so  lovely.  Oh, 
how  could  they  do  it — how  could  any  one  do  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Marsh's  sobs  grew  hysterical.  Lady  Helena's  own 
tears  were  flowing. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  were  guilty  in  some  way  myself,"  the 
Iiousekeeper  went  on.  "  If  we  had  only  woke  her  up,  or 
fastened  the  window,  cr  anything  !    I  know  the  monster, 


IN   THF.   DARKNESS. 


65 


whoever  he  was,   got   in   through   the  window.      And 
niv  liuly  !" — Mis.  Mars!>  wiped  her  eyes  suddenly,  and 


oh, 
low- 


ered her  voice  to  an  excited  whisper — "  I  wi>h  you  Mould 
si)eak.  to  Jane  Tool,  tlie  nurse.  She  doesen't  dare  say 
anything  out  openly,  but  the  iool^s  she  gives,  and  the  hints 
she  drt)ps,  are  almost  worse  than  the  murder  itself. 
You  can  sec  as  clear  as  day  that  she  suspects — Miss 
Inez." 

"  Afarsh  !  Great  Heaven  !  "  Lady  Helena  cried,  recoil- 
ing in  horror.     "  Miss  Inez  !  " 

"  Oh,  my  lady,  /  don't  say  it — /  don't  think  it — Heaven 
forbid  ! — it's  only  that  wicked,  s])iteful  nurse.  Pool.  She 
hates  Miss  Inez — she  has  hated  her  from  the  first — and  she 
loved  my  lady.  Ah  !  who  could  help  being  fond  of  her — 
poor,  lovely  young  lady  ! — with  a  sweet  smile  and  pleasant 
word  for  every  one  in  the  house?  And  you  know  Miss 
Inez's  high,  haughty  way.  Jane  Pool  hates  her,  and  will  do 
her  mischief  if  she  can.  A  word  from  you  might  check  her. 
No  one  knows  the  harm  a  babbling  tongue  may  do." 

Lady  Helena  drew  herself  uj)  proudly. 

"  I  shall  not  say  one  word  to  her,  Marsh.  Jane  Pool 
can  do  my  niece  no  harm.  The  bare  repetition  of  it  is  an 
insult.  Miss  Catheron — that  I  should  have  to  say  such  a 
thing  ! — is  above  susi)icion." 

"  My  lady,  I  believe  it  ;  still,  if  you  would  only  speak  to 
her.  You  don't  know  all.  She  saw  Miss  Inez  coming  out 
of  the  nursery  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  we  found  Lady 
Catheron  dead.  She  wished  to  enter,  and  Miss  Inez  ordered 
her  away.  She  has  been  talking  to  the  police,  and  I  saw 
that  Inspector  Darwin  watching  Miss  Inez  in  a  way  that 
made  my  blood  run  cold." 

But  Lady  Helena  waived  the  topic  away  haughtily. 

"  Be  silent,  Afarsh  !  I  will  not  hear  another  word  of  this 
— it  is  too  horrible  !     Where  is  Miss  Inez  ?  " 

"  In  her  own  room,  my  lady.  And — I  beg  your  jrardon 
for  alluding  to  it  again  —  but  I  think  she  suspects  She 
seemed  dazed-like,  stupefied  at  first ;  she  is  more  like  her- 
self now.  Will  you  not  go  in  and  see  her,  \)oox  soul,  be- 
fore you  go  to  Miss  Inez  ?  Oh,  my  lady,  iny  lady  !  it  breaks 
my  heart  when  I  look  at  her — when  I  look  at  Sir  Victor." 

For  a  moment  Lady  Helena  shrank. 


66 


IN  THE  DARKNESS. 


'   "Sir  Victor  is  in  llicrc — with  her?  "  she  faUercd. 

*'  Yes,  my  lad)' — Hke  a  man  all  struck  stupid.  It  fri,L;li- 
tens  me  to  see  liiiii.  If  he  would  only  sjjevik,  or  cry,  or  lly 
out  agiiust  liic  murderer — but  he  just  sits  there  as  if  turn- 
ing to  stone.'' 

His  aunt  covered  her  face  for  an  instant  with  both  hands, 
heartsick  with  all  these  horrors;  then  slie  looked  up,  and 
moved  forward. 

"  Where  is  she?"  she  asked — "in  which  room?" 

"In  the  wliite  drawing-room,  my  latly ;  the  doctors 
brought  her  there.     Sir  Victor  is  with  her,  alone." 

Lady  Helen  slowly  advanced.  At  the  door  she  paused  a 
moment  to  nerve  herself  for  what  she  must  see  j  then  she 
turned  the  handle  and  went  in. 

It  was  one  of  the  stateliest  rooms  in  the  house — all  white 
and  gold,  and  dimly  lit  now  by  wax  tapers.  Lying  on  one 
of  the  white  velvet  sofas  she  saw  a  rigid  figure,  over  which  a 
white  covering  was  drawn  ;  but  the  golden  iiair  and  the  fair, 
marble  face  gleaming  in  the  waxlights  as  beautiful  as  ever  in 
life. 

He  sat  beside  his  dead — almost  as  motionless,  almost  as 
cold,  almost  as  white.  He  had  loved  her  with  a  love  tiiat 
was  akin  to  idolatrous — he  had  grudged  that  the  eye  of  man 
should  rest  on  his  treasure — and  now  he  sat  beside  her — 
dead. 

If  he  heard  the  door  open,  he  neither  moved  nor  stirred. 
He  never  once  looked  up  as  his  aunt  came  forward  ;  his 
eyes  were  riveted  upon  that  ineffably  calm  face  with  a  va- 
cant, sightless  sort  of  stare  that  chilled  her  blood. 

"Victor  I  "  she  cried  out,  in  a  frightened  voice  ;  "  Victor 
speak  to  mc.     For  jMty's  sake,  don't  look  like  that?  " 

The  dull,  blinded  eyes  looked  up  at  her,  full  of  inlinite, 
unutterable  despair. 

"  She  it  dead,"  he  said,  in  a  slow,  dragging  sort  of  voice 
— "dead!  And  last  night  I  left  her  well  and  hapi)y — left 
her  to  be  murd.  red — to — be — murdered." 

The  slow  words  fell  heavily  from  his  lips — his  eyes  went 
back  to  her  face,  his  dulled  mind  seemed  lapsing  into  its 
stupefied  trance  of  quiet.  More  and  more  alarmed,  his  aunt 
gazed  at  him.     Had  the  death  of  his  wife  turned  Jiis  brain  ? 

"Victor!"    she    exclaimed,  almost   angrily,    "you  must 


his 


br; 


IN  THE  DARKNESS. 


67 


rouse  yourself.  You  must  not  stay  licrc.  I'o  a  man  ! 
W.'.lu'  u|).  Your  wife  has  been  murdered.  Go  and  fuid 
her  murderer." 

"  Her  murderer,"  he  rei)Hed,  in  tlie  same  slow  tone  of 
unnatural  (luiet  ;  "lier  murderer.  It  seems  strange,  Aunt 
Helena,  doesn't  it,  that  any  one  could  murder  her?  '  1  must 
find  her  murderer.'  Oh,"  he  cried,  suddenly,  in  a  voice  of 
anguish  ;  "  what  does  it  matter  about  l',er  murderer  !  It 
won't  bring  her  back  to  life.    She  is  dead  1  tell  you — dead  !  " 

He  Hung  himscUoff  his  chair,  on  liis  knees  by  the  couch. 
He  drew  down  the  white  satin  counterpane,  and  pointed  to 
that  one  dark,  small  stab  on  tiie  left  side. 

"  Look  !  "  he  said,  in  a  shrill,  w;  .iling  voice,  "  tiirough  the 
heart — through  the  heart  I  She  did  not  si'^er — the  doctors 
'•ay  that.  Through  the  heart  as  she  slei/t.  Oh,  my  love, 
my  darling,  my  wife  !" 

He  kissed  the  wound — he  kissed  the  hands,  the  fice,  the 
hair.  Then  with  a  long,  low  moan  of  utter  desolation,  he 
drew  back  the  covering  and  buried  his  face  in  it. 

"  Leave  me  alone,  '  he  said,  despairingly  ;  "  I  will  not  go 
— I  will  never  go  from  her  again.  She  was  mine  in  life — • 
mine  only.  Juan  Cathcron  lied,  she  is  mine  in  death.  My 
wife— my  Ethel  1  " 

He  started  up  as  suddenly  as  he  had  flung  himself  down, 
his  ghastly  face  flaming  dark  red. 

"  J.eave  me  alone,  I  tell  you  !  Why  do  you  all  come 
here?  1  will  not  go  !  Leave  me,  I  command  you — 1  am 
master  here  I " 

She  shrank  from  him  in  absolute  physical  terror.  Never 
over-strong  at  any  time,  her  worst  fears  were  indeed  true, 
the  shock  of  his  wife's  tragic  death  was  turning  Sir  Victor's 
brain.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done — nothing  to  be  said 
— he  must  be  obeyed — must  be  soothed. 

"  Dear  Victor,"  she  said,  "  I  will  go.  Don't  be  hard  with 
poor  Aunt  Helena.  There  is  no  one  in  all  this  world  as 
sorry  for  you  as  1  am.  Only  tell  me  this  before  I  leave  you 
— shall  we  not  send  for  her  father  and  mother  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  fierce  tone  ;  "  they  can't 
bring  her  back  to  life — no  one  can  now.  I  don't  want 
them.  I  want  nobody.  Ethel  is  mine  1  tell  you — mine 
alone  I '' 


68 


IN   TlIK  DARKNESS. 


Kc  motioned  her  imperiously  to  leave  him — a  light  in  his 
eye — a  iliish  on  his  face  there  was  no  mistaking.  She  went 
at  once.  Mow  was  it  all  to  end  she  wondered,  more  and 
more  sick  at  heart — this  mysterious  murder,  this  suspicion 
against  Inez,  this  dreadful  overthrow  of  her  nei)hew's 
mind  ? 

"  May  Heaven  help  ns  !  "  she  cried.  "  What  have  we 
done  that  tiiis  awful  trouble  should  come  upon  us  I  " 

"Aunt  Helena." 

She  looked  round  with  a  little  cry,  all  her  nerves  trembling 
and  unstrung.  Inez  stood  before  her — Inez  with  i^  uk,  reso- 
lute eyes,  and  stony  face. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you — they  told  me  you  were 
there.'"  Siie  pointed  with  a  shudder  to  the  door.  "  What 
are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  Lady  Helena  answered,  helplessly.  "  I 
don't  know.  1  feel  stunned  and  stupid  with  all  these  hor- 
rors." 

"The  police  are  here,"  Miss  Catheron  went  on,  "and  the 
coroner  has  been  apprised.  1  suppose  they  will  hold  an  in- 
quest to-morrow." 

Her  aunt  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  The  calm,  cold  tone 
of  her  voice  grated  on  her  sick  heart. 

"Have  you  seen  /liin?"  she  asked  almost  in  a  whisper. 
"Inez — I  fear — I  fear  it  is  turning  his  brain." 

Miss  Catheron's  short,  scornful  upper  lip,  curled  with  the 
old  look  of  contempt. 

"The  Catheron  brain  was  never  noted  for  its  strength.  I 
shall  not  be  surprised  at  all.  Poor  wretch!"  She  turned 
away  and  looked  out  into  the  darkness.  "  It  does  seem 
hard  on  him." 

"  Who  can  have  done  it  ?  " 

The  question  on  every  lip  rose  to  Lady  Helena's,  but 
somehow  she  could  not  utter  it.  Did  Inez  know  of  the 
dark,  sinster  suspicion  against  herself?  Coiihh  he  know 
and  be  calm  like  this  ? 

"I  forgot  to  ask  for  Uncle  Godfrey,"  Inez's  quiet  voice 
said  again.  "  Of  course  he  is  better,  or  e>'en  at  such  a 
time  as  this  you  would  not  be  here?" 

"  He  is  better,  Inez,"  she  broke  out  desperately.     "  Who 


/iV  THE    DARKNESS. 


69 


: 


can  have  done  this  ?     She  had  not  an  enemy  in  the  vorld. 
Is — is  there  any  one  susi)ecte(l  ?" 

"There  is,"  Inez  answered,  turning  from  the  window,  and 
facing  her  aunt.     "  The  servants  sus[)ect  vie" 

-Inez!" 

"Their  case  isn't  a  bad  one  as  they  make  it  out,"  puisued 
Miss  Catheron,  cooly.  "  There  was  ill  blood  between  us. 
It  is  of  no  use  vlenying  it.  I  hatrd  her  wiUi  my  whole 
heart.  I  was  the  last  person  seen  coming  out  of  the  room, 
fifteen  minutes  before  they  found  her  dead.  Jane  Pool  sa)'S 
I  refused  to  let  her  go  in — periiaps  I  did.  It  is  (juite  likely. 
About  an  hour  previously  we  had  a  violent  quarrel.  Tiio 
ubiquitous  Mrs.  Pool  overheard  that  also.  You  see  her 
case  is  rather  a  strong  one." 

"  But— Inez— !  " 

"  I  chanced  to  overhear  all  this,"  still  went  on  Miss 
Catheron,  quietly,  but  with  set  lips  and  gleaming  eyes. 
"Jane  Pool  was  holding  forth  to  the  inspector  of  police.  I 
walked  up  to  diem,  and  they  both  slunk  away  like  beaten 
curs.  Orders  have  been  issued,  that  no  one  is  to  leave  the 
house.  To-morrow  these  ficts  are  to  be  placed  before  the 
coroner's  jury.  If  they  hnd  me  guilty — don't  cry,  Aunt 
Helena — 1  shall  be  sorry  for  _)w^ —sorry  I  have  disgraced  a 
good  old  name.  For  the  rest,  it  doesn't  much  matter  what 
becomes  of  such  a  woman  as  I  am." 

She  turned  again  to  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the 
darkness.  There  was  a  desjierate  bitterness  in  her  tone  that 
l/uly  Helena  could  not  understand. 

"  (lood  Heaven  I  "  she  bur^  \  forth,  "  one  would  tiiink  you 
wiMc  all  in  a  conspiracy  to  drive  iiie  mad.  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter, what  bc<;omes  of  you,  doesn't  it  r  I  tell  you  if  this  last 
worst  misery  falls  upon  us,  it  will  kill  r'.e  on  tlie  si)ot ;  just 
that." 

The  girl  sighed  drearily. 

"Kill  you,  Aunt  Helena,"  she  rep 
"  No — we  don't  any  of  us  die  so  easily. 
I  am  not  likely  to  talk  in  this  way  before  any  one  but  you. 
1  am  only  telling  you  the  truth.  They  will  have  die  in- 
cjuest,  and  all  that  Jane  P',<ol  can  say  against  me  will  be 
said.     Do  you  think  Victor  will  be  able  to  appear  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  Victor  is  in  a  condition  to  a[)i)ear  at  an 


:.'ated,    mournfully. 
Don't  be  afraid — 


AV   THE  DARKNESS. 


! 


that  even  the  tragic 


inquest  or  anywhere  else.     Ah,  poor  boy  1  he  loved  her  so 
de.uly,  it  is  enough  to  shake  the  mind  of  a  stronger  num." 

Bat  Miss  Catlieron  was  dead  silent — it  was  evident  her 
feelings  here  were  as   bitter  as  ever- 
death  of  her  rival  had  not  softened  her. 

"  He  will  survive  it,"  she  answered,  in  the  same  half-con- 
temptuous  tone.  "Men  have  died  and  worms  have  ealen 
them,  bat  not  for  love." 

"Inez,"  said  her  aunt,  suddenly  coming  a  step  nearer,  "a 
rumor  has  reached  me — is  it  true? — that  Juan  is  back — diat 
he  has  been  here  ?  "' 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  her  niece  answered,  without  turnirg 
round  ;  "  he  has  been  here.  He  was  here  on  the  night 
Lady  Catheron  first  came." 

"There  is  another  lumor  afloat,  that  there  was  a  violent 
quarrel  on  that  occasion — that  he  claimed  to  be  an  old 
lover  of  Ethel's,  poor  child,  and  Uiat  Victor  turned  him  out. 
Since  then  it  is  said  he  has  been  seen  more  than  once 
prowling  about  the  grounds.  For  everybody's  sake  I  hope 
it  is  not  true." 

Inez  faced  round  suddenly — almost  fiercely. 

"And  what  if  i  say  it  *;.$•  true,  in  every  respect?  lie  did 
come — there  was  a  quarrel,  and  Victor  ordered  him  out. 
Since  then  he  has  been  here — prowling,  as  you  call  it — try- 
ing to  see  me,  trying  to  force  me  to  give  him  money.  I 
was  tlinty  as  usual,  and  would  give  him  none.  VVhcie  is  the 
crime  in  all  that  ?  " 

"  Has  he  gone  ?  "  was  Lady 

"  1  believe  so — I  hoj^e  so. 
Of  course  he  lias  gone." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  at  least 


Helena's  response. 

He  had  nothing  to  stay  for. 


do  nothing  more   at   present, 


And  now,  as  it  seems  I  can 

I  will  return   home.     Watch 

I  will  return  at  the 


\'ictor,  Inez — he  needs  it,  1    lieve  me. 
earliest  possible  moment  to-morrow." 

So,  in  the  ciiill  gray  of  the  fast-coming  morning,  Lady 
Helena,  very  heavy-hearted,  returned  to  Powyss  Place  and 
her  sick  husband's  bedside. 

Mcanti'nc  matters  were  really  beginning  to  look  dark  for 
Miss  Catheron.  The  superintendent  of  the  district,  Mr. 
I'errick,  was  filling  his  notebook  with  vt;ry  ominous  inform- 
ation.    She  had  loved  Sir  Victor — siic  had  hated  Sir  Vic- 


IN   THE   DARKNESS. 


n 


tor's  wife — they  had  led  a  cat-and-dog  lue  from  the  first — an 
liour  before  the  iiiurdcr  they  had  had  a  violent  quarrel — 
Lady  Catheron  had  threatened  to  make  her  husband  turn 
her  out  of  the  house  on  the  morrow.  At  eight  o'clock,  Jane 
I'ool  had  left  the  nursery  with  the  baby,  n)y  lady  peacefully 
asleep  ill  her  chair — the  Eastern  poniaid  on  the  table.  At 
half-past  eight,  returning  to  arouse  my  lady,  she  had  encoun- 
t(-'red  Miss  Inez  coming  out  of  the  nursery,  and  Miss  Inez 
had  ordered  her  sharjily  away,  telling  her  my  lady  was  still 
asleep.  A  quarter  of  nine,  Ellen,  the  maid,  going  to  the 
room,  found  my  lady  stone  dead,  stabbed  through  the  heart. 
Miss  Inez,  when  sunnnoned  by  Hooper,  is  ghastly  i)ale  at 
first,  and  hardly  seerns  to  know  what  she  is  doing  or  saying. 
A  very  pretty  case  of  tragedy  in  high  life.  Superintendent 
Ferrick  thinks,  pursing  up  his  lips  with  professional  zest, 
and  not  the  first  murder  jealousy  has  made  fine  ladies 
connnit,  either.  Now  if  that  Turkish  dagger  would  only 
turn  up. 

Two  policemen  are  sent  quietly  in  search  of  it  through 
the  grounds.  It  isn't  likely  they'll  find  it,  still  it  will  do  no 
harm  to  try.  He  finds  out  which  are  Miss  Catheron's 
rooms,  and  keeps  his  official  eye  upon  them.  He  goes 
through  the  house  with  the  velvet  tread  of  a  cat.  \w  the 
course  of  his  wanderings  everywhere,  he  brings  up  presently 
in  the  stables,  and  finds  them  untenanted,  save  by  one  lad, 
who  sits  solitary  among  the  straw.  He  is  rather  a  dull-look- 
ing youth,  with  a  fiorid,  vacant  face  at  most  limes,  but  look- 
ing dazed  and  anxious  just  now.  "Something  on  his  mind," 
thinks  the  superintendent,  and  sits  sociably  down  on  a  box 
beside  him  at  once. 

"Now,  my  man,"  Mr.  Ferrick  says,  jileasantly,  "and 
what  is  it  that's  troubling  jw^/  Out  with  it — every  little's  a 
helj)  in  a  case  like  tliis." 

'The  lad — his  name  is  Jimmy — does  not  need  pressing — 
his  secret  has  been  weighing  uneasily  ui)()n  him  for  the  last 
hour  or  more,  ever  since  he  heard  of  the  nuu'der,  in  fact, 
and  he  i)ours  his  revelation  into  the  superintendent's  eager 
ear.      His  revelation  is  this  : 

East  evening,  just  about  dusk,  strolling  by  chance  in  the 
direction  of  the  Laurel  walk,  he  heard  voices  raised  and  an- 
gry in   the  walk — the  voices  of  a  man  and  a  woman.     He 


72 


IN   THE   DARKNESS. 


liad  i>ecpccl  through  the  branches  and  seen  my  lady  and  a 
very  tall  man.  No,  it  wasn't  Sir  Victor — it  was  a  iniuii  big- 
ger man,  with  long  black  curling  hair.  Didn't  see  his  face. 
It  was  (lark  in  there  among  the  trees.  Wasn't  sure,  but  it 
struck  him  it  might  be  the  tall,  black-avised  man.  who  came 
hrst  the  night  Sir  Victor  brought  home  my  lady,  and  who 
had  been  seen  skulking  about  tiic  park  once  or  twice  since. 
Had  heard  a  whis()er,  that  the  man  was  Miss  Inez's  biother 
— didn't  know  himself.  All  he  did  know  was,  that  my  lady 
and  a  man  were  quarrelling  on  the  evening  of  the  murder  in 
the  Laurel  walk.  What  were  they  quarrelling  about  ?  Well, 
he  couldn't  catch  their  talk  very  well — it  was  about  money 
he  tiiought.  The  man  wanted  money  and  jewels,  and  my 
lady  wouldn't  give  'em.  He  threatened  to  do  something  or 
tell  sou)ething;  then  she  threatened  to  have  him  put  in 
Chesholm  jail  if  he  did.  He,  Jimmy,  though  full  of  curiosity, 
was  afraid  the  man  would  si)ring  out  and  catch  him,  and  so 
at  that  juncture  he  came  away.  There!  that  was  all,  if  it 
did  the  gentleman  any  good,  he  was  welcome  to  it. 

It  did  the  gentleman  a  world  of  good — it  complicated 
matters  beautifully.  Five  minutes  ago  the  case  looked  dark 
as  night  for  M  i.-,s  Catheron— here  was  a  rift  in  her  sky.  Wlio 
was  this  man — taas  it  Miss  Catheron's  scapegrace  brother  ? 
Jimmy  could  tell  him  nothing  m<;re.  '*  If  you  wants  to  fnid 
out  about  Miss  Inez'  brother,"  said  Jimmy,  "you  go  to  old 
Hooper.  He  knows.  All  /  know  is,  that  they  say  he  was 
an  uncommon  bad  lot;  but  old  Hooper,  he's  knowed  him 
ever  since  he  was  a  young 'un  and  lived  here.  If  old 
Hoo])er  says  he  wasn't  here  the  night  Sir  Victor  brought  my 
lady  home,  don't  you  believe  him — he  was,  and  he's  been 
seen  off  and  on  in  the  grounds  since.  The  women  folks  in 
the  servants'  hall,  they  say,  as  how  he  must  have  been  an 
old  sweetheart  of  my  lady's.  You  go  to  old  Hooper  and 
worrit  it  out  of  him." 

Mr.  Sui)erintendent  Ferrick  went.  How  artfully  he  be- 
gan his  work,  how  delicately  and  skillfully  he  "pumped"'  old 
Hooper  dry,  no  words  can  tell.  Mr.  Juan  Catheron  was  an 
"  uncommon  bad  lot,"  he  had  come  to  the  Iiouse  and  forced 
an  entrance  into  the  dining-room  the  night  of  Latly  Cath- 
eron's arrival — there  had  been  a  quarrel,  and  he  had  been 
compelled   to   leave.     15it   by  bit   this  wa;  drawn  from  Mr, 


fl 


IN   THE   DARKNESS. 


n 


Hooper.  Since  then,  Jackson,  the  head  groom,  and  Ed- 
wards, the  valet,  had  seen  him  hovering  about  the  grounds 
watching  tlie  house. 

Mr.  Ferrick  ponders  these  things  in  his  heart,  and  is  still. 
This  vagabond,  Juan  Catheron,  follows  my  lady  to  Catheron 
Royals,  is  exj)e!'cd,  haunts  the  grounds,  and  a  man  an- 
swering to  his  descrijition  is  discovered  rjuarrelling  wilh  my 
lady,  dcmandmg  nK)ney,  etc.,  two  or  three  hours  before  the 
minder.  The  window  of  the  room,  in  which  she  takes  that 
fatal  sleep,  opens  on  the  lawn  ;  any  one  may  enter  who  sees 
lit.  No  one  is  about.  The  Oriental  dagger  lies  convenient 
to  his  hand  on  the  table.  "  Here,  now,"  says  Mr.  Ferrick 
to  Mr.  Ferrick,  with  a  reflective  frown,  "  which  is  guilty — 
the  brother  or  sister  ?  " 

Me  goes  and  gives  an  order  to  one  of  his  men,  and  the 
man  startes  in  search  of  Mr.  Juan  Catheron.  Mr.  Catheron 
must  be  found,  though  they  summon  the  detectives  of  Scot- 
land Yard  to  aid  them  in  their  search. 

The  dull  hours  wear  on — the  new  day,  sunny  and  bright, 
is  witii  them.  The  white  drawing-room  is  darkened— the 
master  of  Catheron  Royals  sits  tliere  alone  with  his  dead. 
And  presently  the  coroner  comes,  and  talks  with  the  super- 
intendent, and  they  enter  softly  and  look  at  the  murdered 
lady.  The  coroner  departs  again — a  jury  is  summoned,  and 
tlie  intpie^t  is  lixed  to  begm  at  noon  next  day  in  the 
"Mitre"  tavern  at  Chesholm. 

Lady  Helena  returns  and  goes  at  once  to  her  nephew. 
Ine/.,  in  spile  of  her  injunctions,  has  never  been  near  him 
once.  He  sits  there  still,  as  she  left  him  many  hours  ago  ;  he 
has  never  stirred  or  spoken  since.  Left  to  liimself  he  is  al- 
most apathetic  in  his  tpuet — he  rouses  into  fury,  when  they 
strive  to  take  him  away.  As  the  dusk  falls.  Lady  Helena, 
passing  the  door,  hears  him  softly  talking  to  the  dead,  and 
once — oh,  pitiful  Heaven  !  she  hears  a  low,  blood-chilling 
laugh.  She  opens  the  door  and  goes  in.  He  is  kneeling 
besides  the  sofa,  holding  the  stark  figure  in  his  arm.s,  urging 
her  to  get  up  and  dress. 

"  it  is  a  lovi'ly  night,  ICthel,"  he  says  ;  "the  moon  is  shin- 
ing, and  you  know,  you  like  to  walk  out  on  moonlight  nights. 
L)o  you  remember,  love,  those  nights  at  Margate,  when  we 
walked  together  hrst  on  the  sands  ?     Ah  !  you  never  lay  like 


74 


IN   THE   DARKNESS. 


this,  cold  and  still,  then.  Do  get  up,  Ethel ! "  petulantly 
this  ;  "  I  am  tired  of  sitting  here  and  waiting  for  you  to 
awake.     You  have  slept  long  enough.     Get  up  !  " 

He  tries  to  lift  her.  Horror  struck,  Lady  lielena  catches 
him  in  time  to  jjrevent  it. 

"  Victor,  Victor  !  "  she  cries,  "for  the  love  of  Heaven  put 
her  down.     Come  away.     Don't  you  know  she  is  dead?" 

He  lifts  his  dim  eyes  to  her  face,  blind  with  the  misery  of 
a  dumb  animal. 

''ZJcW///"  he  whispers. 

Then  with  alow,  moaning  gasp,  he  falls  back  in  her  arms, 
fainting  wholly  away. 

Her  cries  bring  aid — they  lift  him  and  carry  him  up  to  his 
room,  undress  and  place  him  in  bed.  The  family  physician 
is  summoned — feels  his  pulse,  hears  what  Lady  Helena  has 
to  say,  and  looks  very  grave.  Tlie  shock  has  been  too 
much  for  a  not  overstrong  body  or  mind.  Sir  Victor  is  in 
imminent  danger  of  brain  fever. 

The  night  shuts  down.  A  messenger  comes  to  Lady 
Helena  saying  the  scpiirc  is  nuich  belter,  and  she  makes  up 
her  mind  to  remain  all  nigiit.  Inez  comes,  pale  and  calm, 
and  also  takes  her  place  by  the  stricken  man's  bedside,  a 
great  sadness  and  |)ity  for  the  lirst  time  on  her  face.  The 
White  Room  is  locked — Lady  Helena  keeps  the  key — one 
pale  light  burns  dimly  in  its  glittering  vastness.  And  as  the 
night  closes  in  blackness  over  tiie  doomed  house,  one  of  the 
policemen  comes  in  haste  to  Superintendent  Ferrick,  tri- 
umph in  his  face.     He  has  found  the  ilagger. 

Mr.  Ferrick  opens  his  eyes  rather — it  is  more  than  he  ex- 
pected. 

"A  bungler,"  he  mutters,  "whoever  did  it.  Joues,  where 
did  you  find  this  ?  " 

Jones  explains. 

Near  the  entrance  gates  there  is  a  wilderness  of  fern,  or 
bracken,  as  high  as  your  waist.  Hidden  in  the  midst  of  tliis 
unlikely  place  Jones  lias  found  the  dagger.  It  is  as  if  the 
party,  going  down  the  avenue,  had  llung  it  in. 

"  Huiigler,"  Siii)erintcndent  Ferrick  says  again.  "It's 
bail  enough  to  be  a  murderer  without  being  a  fool." 

He  takes  the  dag'^er.  No  doubt  about  the  work  it  has 
done.    It  is  incrusled  with  blood — dry,  dark,  and  clotted  up 


IN   THE  DARKNESS. 


n 


or 


to  the  liilt.  A  strong,  sure  hand  had  certainly  done  the 
deed.  T'or  the  first  tune  tlie  thought  strikes  him— rr?///// a 
•woman's  iiand,  strike  that  one  strong,  sure,  deadly  blow  ? 
Miss  Calhcron  is  a  fragile-looking  young  lady,  willi  a  waist 
he  could  span,  slim  little  fuigcrs,  and  a  delicate  wiist. 
Could  she  strike  this  blow — it  is  quite  evident  only  one  has 
been  struck. 

"And  besides,"  says  Superintendent  Ferrick,  argumenta- 
tively  to  himself,  "it's  fifteen  minutes'  fast  walking  from  the 
house  to  the  gates.  Fifteen  minutes  only  elapse  between 
the  time  Nurse  I'ool  sees  her  come  out  of  the  nursery  and 
Maid  Ellen  finds  her  mistress  murdered.  And  I'll  be  sworn, 
she  hasn't  been  out  of  the  house  to-day.  All  last  night  they 
say  she  kept  herself  shut  up  in  her  room.  Suppose  she 
wasn't — suppose  she  went  out  last  night  and  tried  to  hide  it, 
is  it  likely — come,  I  say  !  is  it  likely,  she  would  take  and 
throw  it  right  in  the  very  spot,  where  it  was  sure  to  be 
found?  A  Tartar  that  young  woman  is,  1  have  no  doubt, 
but  she's  a  long  way  olf  being  a  fool.  She  may  know  who 
has  done  this  muixler,  but  I'll  stake  my  inofessional  reputa- 
tion, in  spite  of  Mrs.  Pool,  that  she  never  did  it  herself" 

A  thin,  drizzling  rain  comes  on  with  the  night,  the  trees 
drip,  drip  in  a  feeble  melancholy  sort  of  way,  the  wind  has  a 
lugubrious  sob  in  its  voice,  and  it  is  intensely  dark.  It  is 
about  nine  o'clock,  when  Miss  Catheion  rises  from  her  plnce 
by  the  sick-bed  am'  goes  out  of  the  room.  In  the  corridor 
she  stands  a  moment,  with  the  air  of  one  who  looks,  and  lis- 
tens. She  sees  no  one.  The  dark  tigure  of  a  woman,  who 
hovers  afxr  olT  and  watches  her,  is  there,  but  lost  in  a  shad- 
owy corner ;  a  woman,  who  since  the  murder,  has  never  en- 
tirely lost  sight  of  her.  Miss  Catheron  does  not  see  her, 
she  takes  up  a  siiawl,  wraps  it'about  her,  over  her  head,  walks 
rapidly  along  the  passage,  down  a  back  stairway,  out  of  a 
side  door,  little  used,  and  so  out  into  the  dark,  dripping, 
sighing  night. 

There  are  the  Chcsholm  constabulary  on  guard  on  the 
wet  grass  and  gravel  elsewhere — there  arc  none  here.  IJut 
the  tiuiet  figure  of  Jane  Pool  has  followed  her,  like  her 
shadow,  and  Jane  Pool's  face,  peers  cautiously  out  from  the 
hair-oi)en  door. 

In  that  one  instant  while  she  waits,  she  misses  her  prey 


76 


IN  THE  DARKNESS. 


— she  emerges,  but  in  the  darkness  notliing  is  to  be  seen  or 
heard. 

As  she  stands  irresolute,  she  suddenly  hears  a  low,  dis- 
tinct whistle  to  the  left.  It  may  be  the  call  of  a  night-bird 
— it  may  be  a  signal. 

She  glides  to  the  left,  straining  her  eyes  through  the 
gloom.  It  is  many  minutes  before  she  can  see  anything,  ex- 
cept the  vaguely  waving  trees — then  a  fiery  spark,  a  red  eye 
glows  through  the  night.  She  has  run  her  prey  to  earlh— it 
is  the  lighted  tip  of  a  cigar. 

She  draws  near — her  heart  throbs.  Dimly  she  sees  the 
tall  figure  of  a  man  ;  close  to  him  the  slender,  slighter  figure 
of  a  woman.  They  are  talking  in  whispers,  and  she  is  mor- 
tally afraid  of  coming  too  close.  What  is  to  keep  them  from 
murdering  her  too  ? 

"  I  tell  you,  you  must  go,  and  at  once,"  are  the  first  words, 
she  hears  Inez  Catheron  speaking,  in  a  passionate,  intense 
whisper.  "  I  tell  you  I  am  suspected  already ;  do  you 
think  you  can  escape  much  longer?  If  you  have  any  feel- 
ing for  yourself,  for  me,  go,  go,  I  beseech  you,  at  once  ! 
I'hey  are  searching  for  you  now,  I  warn  you,  and  if  they 
find  you — " 

"  If  they  find  me,"  the  man  retorts,  doggedly,  "  it  can't 
be  much  worse  than  it  is.  Things  have  been  so  black  with 
me  for  years,  that  they  can't  be  much  blacker,  lint  I'll  go. 
I'm  not  over  anxious  to  stay.  Lord  knows.  Give  me  the 
money  and  I'll  be  off." 

She  takes  from  her  bosom  a  package,  and  hands  it  to  him  ; 
by  the  glow  of  the  red  cigar-tip  Jane  sees  her. 

"It  is  all  I  have-^all  1  can  get,  jewels  and  all,"  she  says  ; 
"enough  to  keep  you  for  years  with  care.  Now  go,  and 
never  come  back — your  coming  has  done  evil  enough, 
surely." 

Jane  Pool  catches  the  words — the  man  mutters  some  sul- 
len, inaudible  reply.  Inez  Catheron  speaks  again  in  the 
same  passionate  voice. 

"How  dare  you  say  so?"  she  cries,  stamping  her  foot. 
"  You  wretch  !  whom  it  is  iny  bitterest  shame  to  cull 
brother.  IJut  for  you  she  would  bo  alive  and  well.  Do  you 
think  I  do  not  know  it  ?  Cio — livirjg  or  dead,  I  never  want 
to  look  upon  your  face  again  ! " 


FROM   THE   '''CHESHOLM  COURIER." 


77 


-It 


Jane  Pool  hears  those  teriil)le  words  and  stands  para- 
lyzed. Can  it  be,  that  Miss  Inez  is  not  the  murderess  after 
all?  The  man  retorts  again — she  does  not  h.ear  how — then 
plnnges  into  the  woodland  and  disai)pears.  An  instant  the 
girl  stands  motionless  looking  after  him,  then  she  turns  and 
walks  rapidly  back  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


FROM   THE  "CUESHOLM    COURIER." 


^1- 


HE  RTonday  morning  edition  of  the  Chesholm  Cou- 
rier, September  19th,  18 — ,  contained  the  follow- 
ing, eagerly  devoured  by  every  man  and  woman 
in  the  county,  able  to  read  at  all  ; 

THE   TRAGKUY   AT   CATMERON    ROVALS. 

"  In  all  the  annals  of  mysterious  crime  (began  the  editor, 
with  intense  evident  relish),  noliiing  more  mysterious,  or 
more  awful,  has  ever  been  known,  tiian  llie  recent  tragedy 
at  Calheron  Royals.  In  tlie  annals  of  our  town,  of  our 
county,  of  our  country  we  may  almost  say,  it  stands  unpi'Tl- 
leled  in  its  atrocity.  A  young  and  lovely  lady,  wedded  litUe 
better  than  a  year,  holding  the  very  highest  position  in 
society,  in  the  sacred  privacy  of  her  own  household,  sur- 
rounded by  faithful  servants,  is  struck  down  by  the  dagger 
of  the  assassin.  Her  youth,  her  beauty,  the  sanctity  of 
slumber,  all  were  powerless  to  shield  her.  Full  of  life, 
and  hope,  and  happiness,  she  is  foully  and  hideously  mur- 
dered— her  babe  Lft  motlieile^s,  her  young  husband  be- 
reaved and  tlesolate.  If  anything  were  needed  to  make 
the  (.Ireadt'ul  tragedy  yet  more  dreatlful,  it  is,  tliat  Sir  Victor 
Catlieron  lies,  as  we  write,  hovering  between  life  and  death. 
The  blow,  which  struck  her  down,  has  stricken  him  too — has 
laid  hun  upon  what  may  be  iiis  death-bed.  At  present  he 
lies  mercifully  unconscious  of  his  terrible  loss  tossing  in  the 
delirium  of  violent  brain  fever. 

"  Who,  we  ask,  is  safe  after  this  ?    A  lady  of  the  very  high- 


78 


FKOM   THE  "  CnilSlIOLM   COURIER:'' 


est  rank,  in  her  own  home,  surrouncK'd  by  her  servants,  in 
open  (lay,  is  stabbed  to  tl)0  heart.  W'iio,  we  ask  again,  is 
sate  after  tiiis  ?  Who  was  tlu;  assassin — wiiat  was  the  mo- 
tive ?  Does  lliat  assassin  yet  hirk  in  our  midst  ?  Let  it  be 
the  work  of  the  coroner  and  his  jury  to  discover  the  terrible 
secret,  to  bring  the  wretch  to  justice.  And  it  is  the  duty  of 
every  man  and  woman  in  Chesholm  to  aid,  if  they  can,  that 
discovery." 

«  «  *  .  «  He 

#  From  Tuesday's  Edition. 

The  inquest  began  at  one  o'clock  yesterday  in  the  parlor 
of  the  Mitre  Inn,  Lady  IleUma  Powyss,  of  Powyss  Place, 
and  Miss  Inez  Catheron  being  pre.sent.  The  first  witness 
called  was  Ellen  Butters. 

Er-LEN  I'urrERS  sworn. — "  I  was  Lady  Catheron's  maid  ; 
I  was  engaged  in  London  and  came  down  with  licr  here  ;  on 
the  afternoon  ofl''riday,  i6Ui,  I  last  .saw  my  lady  alive,  about 
half-past  six  in  the  afternoon  ;  she  had  dressed  for  dinner ; 
the  family  dinner  hour  is  seven  ;  saw  nothing  unusual  about 
her  ;  well  yes,  she  seemed  a  little  out  of  sjiirits,  but  was 
gentle  and  i)atient  as  usual ;  when  I  had  finished  dressing 
her  she  tin-ew  her  shawl  about  her,  and  took  a  book,  and  said 
she  would  go  out  a  few  minutes  and  take  the  air;  she  did 
go  out,  and  1  went  down  to  the  servant's  hall ;  sometime 
after  seven  Jane  Pool,  the  nurse,  came  down  in  a  great  ilinry 
and  said — " 

TiiK  Coroner. — "  Young  woman  we  don't  want  to  hear 
what  Jane  Pool  said  and  did.  We  want  to  know  what  you 
saw  yourself." 

Ellen  Luiters  (sulkily). — "Very  well,  that's  what  I'm 
trying  to  tell  you.  If  Jane  Pool  hadn!t  said  Sir  Victor  had 
gone  off  to  Powyss  Place,  and  that  she  didn't  think  it  would 
be  i)roi)er  to  disturb  my  lady  just  then,  1  would  have  gone 
up  to  my  lady  for  orders.  Jane  had  her  supper  and  went  up 
to  the  nursery  for  baby.  She  came  back  again  after  awhile 
— it  was  just  i)ast  eight — in  a  tem[ier,  saying  she  had  left  my 
lady  aslee[)  when  she  took  away  baby,  and  returned  to  awake 
her.  She  had  met  Miss  Inez  who  ordered  her  away  about 
her  business,  saying  niy  lady  was  still  asleep.  Jane  Pool 
said—" 


FROM   THE   '■  Cnr.snOLM    COURTERy 


79 


Thf.  Coroner — "Young  woman,  we //c/zV  want  to  hear 
what  Jane  Pool  said.  Jane  Pool  will  tcUhcr  own  stoiy  pres- 
ently ;  we  won't  Ironhle  yon  to  tell  both.  At  what  hour  did 
you  go  \\\)  to  the  nursery  youiself?" 

JOi,Lr,>J  ]?i;tti;us  (more  sulkily). — "  I  (lisrememl)'?r  ;  it  was 
after  eight.  I  could  tell  all  about  it  better,  if  you  wouldn't 
keep  interrupting  and  ))utling  me  out.  It  was  about  a 
(juarter  or  twenty  minutes  jiast  eight,  I  think — " 

TiiK  CoRO.MCR  (dogmatically).  — "  What  you  think  won't 
do.  Be  more  precise  if  you  please,  and  keep  your  temper. 
What  o'clock  was  it,  1  say,  when  you  went  up  to  the  nur- 
sery ?  " 

Kf.i.tcn  Buttfrs  (excitedly). — "It  was  about  a  quarter 
or  twenty  minutes  past  eight — how  can  I  know  any  sum  \'  hen 
I  don't  know.  I  don't  carry  a  watch,  and  didn't  look  at  the 
clock.  I'm  sure  I  never  expected  t(>  be  badgered  about  it  in 
this  way.  I  said  I'd  go  and  wxikc  my  lady  up,  and  not  leave 
her  there  to  catch  her  death,  in  spite  of  fifty  Miss  Catherons. 
1  rapped  at  the  door  and  got  no  answer,  then  1  opened  it 
and  went  in.  There  was  no  light,  but  the  moon  was  shining 
bright  and  clear,  and  I  saw  my  lady  sitting,  with  her  shawl 
around  her,  in  the  arm-chair.  I  thought  she  was  asleep 
and  called  her — there  was  no  answer.  I  called  again,  and 
put  my  haiul  on  her  bosom  to  arouse  her.  Something  wet 
my  hand — it  was  blood.  I  looked  at  her  closer,  and  saw 
blood  on  her  dress,  and  oozing  in  a  little  stream  from  the 
left  breast.  Then  I  knew  she  had  been  killed.  1  ran  scream- 
ing from  the  room,  antl  down  among  the  rest  of  the  servants. 
I  told  tiicm  —  I  didn't  know  how.  And  I  don't  remember 
any  more,  for  1  fell  in  a  faint.  When  1  came  to  1  was  alone 
— tile  rest  were  up  in  the  nursery.  I  got  up  and  joined  them 
— that's  everything  I  know  about  it." 

Ellen  Butters  retired,  and  William  Hooper  was  called. 
This  is  Mr.  Hooper's  evidence  : 

"  I  have  been  butler  in  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  family  for 
twenty  years.  On  the  night  of  Friday  last,  as  I  sat  in  the 
servants'  hall  after  supi)er,  the  young  woman,  Ellen  l>atters, 
my  lady's  London  maid,  came  screeching  downstairs  like  a 
creature  gone  mad,  that  my  lady  was  murdered,  and 
frightened  us  all  out  of  our  senses.  As  she  was  always  a 
lligiity  young  person,  I  didn't   believe  her.     1    ordered  her 


80 


FKOM   rilE   *' CIIEHIIOLM  COURIER." 


to  be  quiet,  and  tell  ns  what  she  meant.  Instead  of  doing 
it  ^hc■gave  a  sort  of  gasp  and  fell  fuinliug  down  in  a  heap. 
1  made  them  lay  her  down  on  Uic  tluor,  and  then  follow  me 
up  to  die  nniM'iy.  We  went  in  a  body — I  ut  the  head. 
'I'here  was  no  light  but  the  moonlight  in  the  room.  My  lady 
lay  buck  in  tlie  aini-chair,  her  eyes  clcsed,  bleeding  and  quite 
dead.  I  ran  up  to  Miss  Inez's  roonxand  called  her.  My 
master  was  not  at  home,  or  1  would  liave  ealledhim  instead. 
I  think  she  must  have  been  dead  some  minutes.  She  was 
growinjT  cold  when  1  found  her." 

"William  Hooper,"  continued  the  Chesholin  Courier,  com- 
numicatively,  "  was  cross-examined  as  to  the  precise  time  of 
finding  tlie  body.  He  saiil  it  was  close  upon  half-past  eigiit, 
tlie  half  hour  struck  as  he  went  up  to  Miss  Inez's  rooui." 

James  Dick-ey  was  next  called.  James  Dick'  ey,  a  shamb- 
ling lad  of  eighteen,  took  his  jjlace,  his  eyes  roUing  in  abject 
terror,  and  uiiJer  the  evident  impression  that  he  was  being 
tried  for  his  life.  Every  answer  was  wrung  from  this  fright- 
ened youth,  as  with  red-hot  pincers,  and  it  was  with  the  ut- 
most ilihlcul'v  anvlhing  consistent  couid  be  extorted  at  alK 

•'  About  haif-pajt  six  on  Frida  •  evening,  Mr.  Di^  ksey  was 
rambling  about  Uie  grounds,  in  thedirectionof  the  laurel  walk. 
In  the  0|jen  ground  it  wa;;  still  quite  light,  in  the  laurel  walk 
it  was  growing  du.^k.  As  he  drew  near,  he  heard  voices 
in  the  laurel  walk — ang'y  voices,  though  not  very  loud — the 
voices  of  a  man  and  a  woman.  Peeped  in  and  saw  my  lady. 
Yes,  it  was  my  lady — yes,  he  was  sure.  Was  it  likely  now 
he  wouldn't  know  my  lady  ?  The  man  was  very  tall,  had  a 
fiirrin-looking  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  him.  He  didn't  see  his  face.  They  were  quarrel- 
ling and — well  yes,  he  did  listen.  Heard  the  man  call  her 
'  I'lihel,'  and  ask  for  money.  She  wouldn't  give  it  to  him. 
Then  he  asked  for  jewels.  She  refused  again,  and  oidered 
him  to  go.  She  v.as  very  angry — she  stamped  her  foot  once 
and  said  :  '  If  you  don't  go  iiis.tamly  111  call  my  husband. 
Between  you  and  your  sister  you  wi.l  drive  me  mad.'  When 
she  said  that,  he  guessed  at  once,  who  the  big  fun  in-looking 
nian  was.  It  was  Miss  Inez's  brother,  Mr.  Juan  Ca'.heron. 
Plad  heard  tell  of  him  often,  and  knew  he  had  been  at  the 
house  the  night  of  my  lady's  arrival,  and  that  there  had  been 
a  row." 


FROM  THE   •'  CIIESnOLM  COURIER." 


8i 


ht, 


Mr.  Dicksey  was  here  sharply  reprimanded,  informed  that 
his  suspicions  and  iicarsays  \V(;re  not  wanted,  and  requested 
to  come  back  to  the  i)oint.     He  came  back. 

"  My  lady  wouldn't  give  him  anything,  then  he  got  mad  and 
said  :  (James  Dicksey  had  been  vaguely  impressed  by  these 
remarkable  words  at  the  time,  and  had  been  silently  revolv- 
ing ihem  ever  since)  '(Jivenie  the  jewels,  or  by  all  the  gods 
I'll  blow  the  story  of  your  marriage  to  me  all  over  England  !'  " 

The  breathless  silence  of  coroner,  jury,  and  spectators  at 
this  juncture  was  something  not  to  be  described.  In  that 
profound  silence,  James  Dicksey  went  rambling  on  to  say, 
that  he  could  swear  before  the  Queen  herself  to  those  words, 
that  he  had  been  thinking  them  over  ever  since  he  had  heard 
them,  and  that  he  couldn't  make  to|)  or  tail  of  them. 

Till',  CouoNKR  (interrupting) — "  What  further  did  you 
overhear  ?     lie  careful,  remember  you  are  on  oath." 

Jamks  Dicksey. — "  I  heard  what  my  lady  said.  She  was 
in  an  awful  passion,  and  spoke  loud.  She  said,  *  You  will 
not,  you  dare  not,  you're  a  coward  ;  Sir  Victor  has  you  in 
his  power,  and  if  you  say  one  word  you'll  be  silenced  in 
Che^holm  jail.'  'I'hen  she  stamped  her  foot  again,  and  said, 
'  Leave  me,  Juan  Catheron  ;  I  am  not  afraid  of  you.'  Yes, 
he  was  sure  of  the  name  ;  she  called  him  Juan  Catheron, 
and  looked  as  if  she  could  eat  him  alive.  He  had  heard  no 
more  ;  he  was  afraid  of  being  caught,  and  had  stolen  quietly 
away.  Had  said  notliing  at  all  about  it  to  any  one,  was 
afraid  it  might  reacli  my  lady's  ears,  and  that  he  would  lose 
his  place  for  eavesdrojiping.  At  ten  o'clock  that  night  was 
told  of  the  nuirder,  and  was  took  all  of  a  tremble.  Had  told 
Superintendent  Ferrick  something  of  this  next  day,  but  this 
was  all — yes  so  help  him,  all  he  had  heard,  and  just  as  he 
had  heard  it." 

James  Dicksey  was  rigidly  cross-examined,  and  clung  to 
his  testimony  with  a  dogged  tenacity  nothing  could  alter  or 
shake.  He  could  swear  positively  to  the  name  she  had  ut- 
tered, to  the  words  both  had  si)oken,  if  he  were  dymg.  A 
profound  sensation  ran  through  the  room  as  James  Dicksey 
sat  down — a  thrill  of  unutterable  apprehension  and  fear. 

The  examination  of  these  three  witnesses  had  occupied 
the  whole  of  the  afternoon.    The  court  adjourned  until  next 
morning  at  ten  o'clock. 
4* 


82 


FROM   T/IE   ''CI/ESIIOLM    COURIER." 


On  Tuesday  morning,  despite  the  incliiiu'ncy  of  the 
M'oathcr  (said  the  Chrs/iohn  Courier  to  its  readers)  the  par- 
lor of  tlie  ''  Mitre,"  the  halls,  the  stairways,  and  even  the  inn 
yard  were  filled  at  the  hour  of  nine.  The  exeitenient  was 
intense — you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  the  silence, 
when  the  examination  of  witnesses  was  resumed.  William 
Hooper  was  again  called  to  take  the  stand. 

The  CoRO.VfCR. — "You  remember,  I  suppose,  the  evening 
on  which  Sir  Victor  brought  Lady  Catheron  home  ?  " 

WlTNKS.S.— "I  do." 

Coroner. — "You  had  a  visiior  on  that  night.  You  ad- 
mitted him,  did  you  not,  Mr.  Hooper?  Who  was  that  visi- 
tor ?  " 

"  It  was  ^fr.  Juan  Catheron." 

"Was  Mr.  Juan  Catheron  in  ihehabit  of  visiting  Catheron 
Royals?" 

"  He  was  not." 

"  Can  you  recollect,  how  long  a  period  had  elapsed  since 
his  previous  visit  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Catheron  had  not  been  at  the  Royals  for  over  four 
years.  He  was  wild — there  was  ill-feeling  between  him  and 
my  master." 

"  Between  him  and  his  sister  also  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know.  1 — believe  so."  Here  the  witness 
looked  piteously  at  the  jury.  "  1  had  rather  not  answer 
these  questions,  gentlemen,  if  you  please.  I'm  an  old  ser- 
vant of  the  family — whatever  family  secrets  may  have  come 
under  my  knowledge,  I  have  no  right  to  reveal." 

The  Coroner  (blandly). — '*  Only  a  few  luore,  Mr.  Hooper. 
We  refiuire  to  know  on  what  footing  .Mr.  Juan  Catheron 
stood  with  his  family.  Did  he  ever  come  to  Catheron  Roy- 
als to  visit  his  sister  ?" 

"  He  ilid  not." 

"Had  he  ever  been  forbidden  the  house?" 

"I— believe  so." 

"  On  tile  evening  of  Sir  Victor  and  Lady  Cathcron's  arrival, 
his  visit  was  entirely  unexpected  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  admitted  him  ?" 

"  I  did." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you?" 


FROM  rilE  "CI/LS//OLM  COURIER'' -^CONTINUED.    83 

"I  don't  reincinlier.  Some  rattling  nonsense — nothing 
more.  He  was  always  liglitlieaiiot!.  He  ran  upstairs  and 
into  the  dining-room  Ijcfore  I  could  i)revent  it." 

"  How  long  did  he  remain  ?" 

"  About  twenty  minutes — not  longer,  I  am  certain.  Then 
he  came  running  back  and  1  let  him  out." 

"  Had  there  been  a  quarrel  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  doggedly  ;  "  I  wasn't  there.  Mr.  Juan 
came  down  laughing,  J  know  that.  I  know  nothing  more 
about  it.     I  have  never  seen  him  since." 


CHAPTER  X. 


FROM  THE  "  CHESHOLM  COURIER  " CONTINUED. 


■■.V* 


ANE  Pool  was  called.  A  suppressed  muiinur  of 
deepest  interest  ran  through  tlie  room  at  the  name 
of  this  witness.  It  was  understood  her  evidence 
would  have  the  deepest  bearing  on  the  case.  Afrs. 
Pool  took  the  stand.  "  A  decent,  intelligent  young  woman," 
said  the  C/us/iolm  Courier.  "  who  gave  her  evidence  in  a 
clear,  straightforward  way  that  carried  conviction  to  every 
hearer."  "  I  am  Jane  I'ool.  I  am  nurse  to  Sir  Victor 
Catheron's  infant  son.  Early  in  August  1  entered  the  ser- 
vice of  the  deceased  Lady  Catheron  in  London  ;  the  first 
week  of  September  I  accompanied  them  down  here.  On 
the  evening  of  the  murder,  about  half-past  si.\^  o'clock,  or 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  seven,  v.hile  I  was  busy  in  the  day 
nursery  over  my  duties,  my  lady  came  in,  as  she  often  did, 
though  not  at  that  hour.  She  looked  i)ale  and  Hurried,  and 
bent  over  baby,  who  lay  asleep,  without  speaking.  Sir  Vic- 
tor came  in  while  she  was  still  there,  and  without  taking  any 
notice  of  me,  told  her  he  had  received  a  note  from  Lady  Hel- 
ena Powyss  saying  Sciuire  Powyss  had  had  a  stroke,  and  that 
he  must  go  at  once  to  Powyss  Place.  He  said  he  thought  he 
would  be  absent  all  nigiit,  that  he  would  return  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  that  she  was  to  take  care  of  herself.  He  kissed  her 
good-by  and  left  the  room.      My  lady  went  to  the  window  and 


84  ^^OM  THE  ''CUES I/O LM  COURIEIV'  —  CONTEYUED. 


waved  her  hand  to  him,  and  watched  him  out  of  si.;ht. 
About  ten  niiiiutcs  after,  while  she  still  stood  there,  the  door 
opened  and  Miss  Inez  came  in  and  asked  for  Sir  Victor  ;  she 
said  she  w.mied  him.  Then  she  stooped. over  and  looked  at 
the  baby,  calling  him  the  heir  of  Cathcron  Royals.  Then  she 
laughed  in  her  soft  way,  and  said  :  "  I  wonder  if  he  is  the  heir 
of  Cathcron  Royals?  I  have  been  reading  the  Scotch  mar- 
riage law,  and  after  what  you  and  my  l)rother  said  the  other 
night — "  If  she  said  any  more  I  didn't  catch  it  — my  lady 
turned  round  in  such  a  llame  of  anger  as  I  never  saw  her  in 
before,  and  says  she  :  "You  have  uttered  your  last  insult, 
Inez  Cathcron — you  will  never  utter  another  beneath  this 
roof  To-morrow  you  leave  it.  1  am  Sir  Victor  Catheron's 
v,-ife,  and  the  mistress  of  Cathcron  Royals — this  is  the  la^,t 
night  it  will  ever  shelter  you."  Then  she  opened  the  door. 
'Col'  she  said;  'when  my  husband  returns  you  or  1 
leave  this  forever.'  Neither  of  them  took  the  least  notice  of 
me  ;  I  was  afraid  of  being  seen,  and  keep  as  ([uiet  as  I 
could.  1  heard  Miss  Inez  answer:  'Not  all  the  soaj)- 
boilers'  daughters  in  England  shall  send  nie  from  Cathcron 
Royals.  You  may  go  to-niorrow  if  you  will,  but  1  will 
never  go,  never  ! '  With  tliat  she  went  away,  and  my  lady 
shut  the  door  upon  her.  1  tiid  not  want  her  to  see  me 
there,  when  she  turned  rountl,  so  I  slipped  out  of  another 
door,  and  downstairs.  I  took  my  supper,  lingering,  I  dare 
say,  half  an  hour;  I  don't  think  it  was  much  more  than 
half  after  seven  when  1  returned  to  the  nursery  for  baby. 
I  found  n)y  lady  asleep  in  the  arm-chair  beside  the  open 
window.  She  had  been  crying — lii^'re  were  tears  on  her 
cheeks  and  eyelashes  as  she  slept.  1  tliJ  not  disturb  her. 
I  lifted  baby  and  carried  hiin  uj)  to  the  night  nursery.  1  left 
him  in  charge  of  the  under  nursemaid,  and  returned  to  the 
room  my  latly  was  in.  The  clock  was  striking  eight  as  I  caun? 
downstairs.  1  was  going  in  to  awaken  my  lady,  not  liking  to 
have  her  sleep  in  the  night  air.  My  hand  was  on  the  hanille, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Miss  Inez  came  out.  She  locjki.'d 
l)aler  than  common,  1  thought,  but  she  spoke  just  as  high 
and  iiauglity  as  usual.  She  asked  me  what  I  wanted  there  ; 
I  told  her  I  wanted  to  waken  my  lady.  She  looked  at  me, 
as  though  she  would  like  to  bite  off  my  head — slie  was  in  one 
of  her  tempers,  1  could  see.     '  You  had  better  let  my  Luly 


FROM  THE^'CHESllOLM  CO CA'/EK''— CONTINUED.    85 


:.lon(\'  she  snys,  'and  attend  to  your  nursery.  She's  a^ileep 
still,  and  it  isn't  jv'.vr  place  to  awaken  her.  Go.'  1  was  in 
a  fiuy ;  1  don't  mind  owning  that,  but  1  said  nothing  and  I 
went.  When  Miss  Inez  looked  and  spoke  like  that,  every 
servant  in  the  house  knew  it  was  as  niucli  as  her  placi  was 
worth  to  disobey  her,  1  went  back  and  told  Ellen  Butters. 
Ellen  was  drinking  her  tea  ;  she  couldn't  abide  Miss  Inez, 
and  the  minute  she  finished  her  cup  she  jumps  up.  '/'/'// 
not  afraid  of  her,'  s,  ys  Ellen  ;  'she  ain't  viy  missis  ;  I'll  go 
and  wake  my  lady  up.'  She  went  ;  we  staid  below.  It 
migiu  be  five  minutes  after,  when  she  comes  Hying  back, 
screaming  fit  to  wake  the  dead,  '  Murder!  murder!'  'I'liere 
was  blood  on  one  of  her  hands,  and  before  we  could  get  any- 
thing more  from  her  except  '  My  lady  !  my  lady  ! '  she  drops 
down  in  a  faint.  We  left  here  there,  ancl  followed  Hooi)er 
upstairs.  There  was  my  lady  lying  in  the  arm-chair  under 
the  window,  as  I  had  seen  her  last — stone  dead.  We  were 
all  so  shocked  and  frightened,  1  hardly  know  what  was  said 
or  done  for  a  while.  Then  somebody  says — 1  don't  know 
who  to  this  minute,  'Where  is  Miss  Catheron?'  Nobody 
made  answer.  Says  the  purson  again  :  '  Where  is  Miss 
Catheron?'  I  think  it  frightened  Hooper.  He  turned 
round,  and  said  lie  would  go  for  her.  He  went — we  waited. 
He  came  back  with  her  in  a  short  while,  and  we  all  looked 
at  her.  She  was  nearly  as  nuich  like  a  dead  wouKin  as  my 
lady  herself.  I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  any  face  before — 
lier  eyes  seemed  da/.ed  in  her  head,  like.  She  hardly  seemed 
to  know  what  she  was  saying  or  doing,  and  she  didn't  seem 
a  bit  susprised.  Hooi-)er  said  to  her  :  '  Shall  I  send  for  Sir 
Victor?'  She  answered,  still  in  that  stunned  sort  of  way  : 
'  Yes,  send  for  Sir  Victor,  and  the  doctor,  and  the  police  at 
once.'  She  was  shivering  like  one  ia  the  chills,  as  she 
said  it.  She  said  she  could  do  notliing  more,  and  she  left  us 
and  went  back  to  her  room.  It  was  then  I  first  missed  the 
digger.  I  can  swear  it  was  iyingon  the  table  beside  a  book, 
when  my  lady  first  fell  asleep  ;  when  I  looked  round,  the 
book  was  still  there,  the  dagger  gone." 

The  blood  stained   dagger  found    by  the  policeman,   was 
here  pro  !  iced  and  identified  at  once  by  the  witness. 

"It  is  the  same — I  have  had  it  in  my  hand  a  hundred 


86  FROM  THE  ''CIIESIIGLM  COURIEIV— CONTINUED. 


times,  and  seen  it  with  her.  Oh,  my  lady — my  lady— my 
dear  lady  !  " 

The  sight  of  the  blood-incnisted  weapon,  seemed  totally  to 
unnerve  the  witness.  She  broke  out  into  hysterical  sobbing, 
which  nothing  could  quiet.  It  being  now  noon,  the  cou;t 
adjourned  till  two  o'clock. 

Jane  Tool  was  then  again  called,  and  resumed  her  impor- 
tant testimony,  in  the  same  rapid,  narrative,  connected  style 
as  before. 

"1  felt  dreadfully  about  the  murder,  and  I  don't  mind 
owning  I  had  my  suspicions.  I  said  to  myself :  'I'll  keep 
an  eye  on  iNIiss  Inez,'  and  I  did,  as  well  as  J  could.  She 
kept  her  room  nearly  all  next  day.  Toward  night,  Sir  Victor 
was  took  down  with  the  fever — wild  and  raving  like,  and 
Miss  Inez  went  with  Lady  Helena  to  sit  witli  him  and 
watch.  I  was  watching  too.  Sir  Victor's  room  door.  1 
don't  know  why,  but  I  seemed  to  expect  sometliing.  About 
nine,  or  a  little  later,  as  I  stood  atone  end  of  theliall  in  the 
shadow,  1  saw  the  door  open  and  Miss  Inez  come  out.  She 
looked  up  and  down  to  see  if  the  coast  was  clear,  then  put 
her  shawl  over  her  head,  and  walked  very  fast  to  the  op])o>ite 
end,  downstairs  and  out  of  the  side  door.  1  followed  her. 
It  was  raining  and  very  dark,  and  at  hrst  I  lost  her  among 
the  trees.  Then  I  heard  a  wiiistle,  and  following  it,  the 
next  tiling  I  saw  was  a  tall  man  smoking  a  cigar,  close  be- 
side her.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  his  face  ;  I  could  just 
make  out  that  he  was  very  tall.  "I'hey  were  talking  in  whis- 
l)ers,  and  what  with  the  dri[),  drip  of  rain  and  the  rustling  of 
the  trees,  1  couldn't  catch  at  fust  what  tliey  were  saying." 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Pool,"  tiie  coroner  observed  at  this  jjoint, 
"  that  is  to  be  regretted.  Eavesdropping  seems  to  be  vour 
forte." 

"  1  don't  think  it  is  any  harm  to  listen  in  a  good  cause," 
Mrs.  Pool  retorted,  sullenly.  "  If  you  don't  care  to  have 
me  repeat  my  eavesdropping,  I  won't." 

"  Repeat  what  you  heard,  if  it  bears  on  fliis  case." 

"  The  first  words  I  heard,  were  from  Miss  Inez.  She  was 
giving  him  something — money,  I  thought,  and  she  said  : 
'Now  go  and  never  come  back.  Your  coming  has  done 
evil  enough  surely.'  I  couldn't  catch  his  answer.  He  took 
what  she  gave  him,  and  Miss  Inez  burst  out,  as  she  always 


FRO.ir  rilE'^CirESIIOLM  COURIEir'— CONTINUED.    8- 


(Iocs,  in  one  of  her  tearing  passions  :  '  How  dare  you  say  so, 
yoii  wretch  !  whom  it  is  my  tjitterest  sliame  to  call  brother. 
But  for  you  s/te  would  be  al'ne  aiui  ii>c//—-<\o  you  tiiink  I 
don't  know  it  ?  (lo  !  Living  or  dead,  I  never  want  to  look 
upon  your  face  again.'  " 

The  .sensaiion  in  the  court  [said  the  CJieshohn  Courier^  as 
the  witness  repeated  these  words,  was  something  indesciib- 
able.  A  low.  angry  murmur  ran  from  li|)  to  lip;  even  tiie 
coroner  turned  pale. 

"  VV'itne>s,"  he  said,  "take  care!  You  arc  on  oatii,  re- 
member. Mow  can  you  recall  accurately  word  for  word  what 
you  heard  ?  " 

"  Arc  they  the  sort  of  words  likely  to  be  forgotten  ? " 
Jane  I'ool  retorted.  "  1  know  I'm  on  oath  ;  I'll  take  five 
liuiuhcd  oaths  to  these  words,  if  you  like.  'J'iiose  were  the 
very  words  Miss  Inez  Catheron  spoke.  She  called  liim  her 
brother.  She  said  but  for  him  she  would  be  alive  to-night. 
'I'licn  he  plunged  into  the  wood  and  disai)peared,  and  she 
went  back  to  the  house.  I  hav'nt  spoken  of  iliis  to  any  one 
since.  I  wrote  the  words  down  when  I  came  in.  Here  is 
the  writing." 

She  handed  the  coroner  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  what 
she  had  repeated  was  written. 

"  I  knew  I  would  ha\e  to  swear  to  it,  so  I  wrote  it  down 
to  make  sure.  But  my  memory  is  good  ;  1  wouldn't  iiave 
forgotten." 

The  witness  was  rigidly  cross-examined,  but  nothing  could 
shaki;  her  testimony. 

•'Tile  window,"  she  said,  "of  the  room  where  the  mur- 
'Icr  was  committed,  opened  on  a  lawn  and  flower-garden — 
uiy  one  could  have  entered  by  it.  The  knile  lay  on  the 
table  close  by." 

Dr.  Dane  was  next  called  and  gave  his  medical  testimony. 
The  dagger  shown,  would  inflict  tlie  wound  that  caused 
Latly  Catheron's  death.  In  his  opinion,  but  one  blow  had 
been  struck  and  iiad  penetrated  tiie  heart.  Death  nuist 
have  been  uiNtantaneous.  A  strt)ng,  sure  hand  must  have 
struck  the  blow. 

The  policeman  who  had  foimd  the  dagger  was  called,  and 
tcstil'ied  as  to  its  discovery  among  the  brake,  on  the  evening 
succeeding  the  murder. 


88  FROM  THE ''CUES HOLM  COURIER''— CONTINUED. 

Miss  Cathcron  was  the  next  and  last  witness  siunnioncd. 
At  tlie  soiuid  of  her  name  a  low,  ominous  hi.^s  was  heard — 
sternly  repressed  at  once  by  the  coroner. 

*'Miss  Catheron  came  in,"  quoth  the  Courier,  "as  pale 
as  marble  and  looking  as  emotionless.  Her  large  dark  eyes 
glanced  over  the  crowded  ro'jm,  and  dead  silence  fell.  The 
young  lady  gave  her  evidence  clearly  and  concisely— perfectly 
calm  in  tone  and  manner. 

"On  the  I'Viday  evening  in  question,  the  deceased  Lady 
Catheron  and  myself  had  a  misunderstaniling.  It  was  my 
fault.  I  made  a  remark  that  wounc'ed  her,  and  she  retorted 
by  saying  1  should  Jeave  Catheron  Royals  on  the  morrow. 
I  answered  equally  angrily,  that  1  would  not,  and  left  the 
room.  ^Vhen  I  was  alone  I  began  to  regret  what  1  had  so 
hastily  said.  I  thought  the  matter  over  for  a  time,  and 
fuially  resolved  to  return  and  apologize.  I  went  back  to  the 
nursery,  and  found  Lady  Catiieron  fast  asleep.  I  would  not 
disturb  her,  and  innnediately  left  the  room.  On  the  thresh- 
old, 1  encountered  Nurse  Pool.  I  had  always  disliked  the 
woman,  and  spoke  sharply  to  her,  ordering  her  away.  Half 
in  hour  after,  as  1  sat  in  my  room  alone.  Hooper,  the  butler, 
came  up,  and  told  me  in\  lady  was  murdered.  1  was  natur- 
ally shocked  and  horrified.  1  went  down  with  him,  and  saw 
her.  I  hardly  knew  w  \\a\.  to  do  ;  1  felt  £tuimed  and  bewiltlered 
by  the  suddenness  of  so  terrible  a  catastrophe.  I  told  the 
butler  to  send  for  Sir  Victor,  for  the  family  physician,  and 
the  police.  I  knew  not  what  else  to  do.  I  could  not  re- 
main in  the  room,  because  the  sight  of  blood  always  turns 
me  faint  and  sick.  I  retired  to  my  own  apartment  and  re- 
mained there  until  the  arrival  of  f,ady  Helena  Powyss." 

There  was  one  fact,  the  Clu'sholin  Courier  did  not  chron- 
icle, concerning  Miss  Catheron's  evidence-- the  f(jnnal, 
constrained  maimer  in  which  it  was  given,  like  one  who  re- 
peats a  well-learned  lesson  by  rote. 


As  she  concluded,  the  coroner  ventured  to  put  a  few  re- 
spectfui  questions. 

"  On  the  night  succeeding  the  murder,  Miss  Catheron, 
you  met  after  dusk  a  man  in  the  grounds.  Do  you  object 
to  telling  us  who  that  man  was  ?  " 


''LET  MOURNING  SHOWS  BE  SPREAD !" 


89 


"  I  do,"  Miss  Catlieron  leplicd,  haughtily.  "  I  most  de- 
cidedly object.  1  have  tokl  all  I  have  to  tell  conccrniii;^' 
this  murder.  About  my  private  affairs  I  will  answer  no  iin- 
l)ertiiieiit  questions,  either  now  or  at  any  future  time." 

Miss  Calheron  was  then  allowed  to  retire.  The  jury 
held  a  consultali(jn,  and  it  was  projiosed  to  adjourn  the  in- 
quest for  a  few  days,  until  Juan  Catheron  should  be  dis- 
covered. 


In  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  "  Mitre,"  Miss  Catlieron  stood 
with  Lady  Helena,  Sir  Roger  Kendrick,  and  a  few  other 
sympathizing  and  indignant  friends.  'J'here  was  but  little 
said — but  little  to  say.  All  felt  that  a  dark,  terrible  cloud 
was  gathering  over  the  girl's  head.  It  broke  sooner  than 
they  looked  for. 

As  they  lingered  there  for  a  few  moments,  awaiting  the  is- 
sue of  the  incpiest,  a  constable  entered  with  ;>  warrant,  ap- 
])i cached  and  touched  Miss  Catheron  lightly  on  the  shoul- 
der. 

Lady  Helena  uttered  a  gasping  cry  ;  Sir  Roger  strode 
forward  ;  the  young  lady  slightly  recoiled.  The  constable 
took  off  his  hat  and  spoke  : 

"  Very  sorry,  Miss,  but  it's  my  jiainful  duty.  I  have  a 
warrant  here  from  Squire  Smiley,  Justice  of  the  Peace,  to  ar- 
rest you  on  suspicion  of  wilful  murder." 


CHAPTER    XL 


"  RING     OUT     YOUR     IJELLS  !         LET 

SPREAD  !  " 


MOURNING     SHOWS    BE 


ff^^^'HRI^lC    days  after,  a  long  and  stately  jirocession 


;tsr!!£*!p    passed  slowly  through  the  great  gates,  under  the 


\':^^Ri   lofty  Norman    archway,  bearing  to  the  Catheron 
"  vaults  the  botly  of  Ethel,  last  lady  Catheron. 

A  long  and  sad  ceremonial  !     Why,  it  seemed  only  yester- 
day that  that  mournful,  passing  bell  had  rung  c>iu  the  v.cl- 


90 


'' RliVG    OUT    YOUR   BELLS! 


coming  i)eal ;  but  yesterday  since  tlicy  had  lit  tlie  hon-fircs, 

and  tossed  their  hats  in  the  air,  and  cheered  with  ;il! 
their  hearts  and  souls,  the  gallant  husband  and  lovely  wile. 
For  a  "  squire  of  high  degree"  to  marry  beneath  him,  is 
something  that  goes  home,  warm  and  true,  to  every  humble 
heart.  Sir  Victor's  tenantry  had  never  been  half  so  proud 
of  him,  as  when  he  had  brought  among  them  his  lovv-boru 
wife.  It  seemed  but  yesterday  that  all  the  parish  had  seen 
her,  walking  up  this  very  aisle,  in  pale,  llowing  silks,  and  with 
the  sweetest  face  the  sun  ever  shone  on,  leaning  on  her 
hapi)y  young  husband's  arm  ;  and  now  they  carried  her  dead 
— foully  nnudered — to  the  open  Catheron  vault,  and  laid 
her  to  slei.'p  forever  beside  the  high-born  dames  of  the  race 
who  slept  their  last  sleep  there. 

"All  men  are  equal  on  the  tnrf  and  under  it,"  once  said 
a  famous  sporting  nobleman,  Ethel  Dobb,  the  London 
soap-boiler's  daughter,  took  her  place  to-day,  among  the  dead 
daughters  of  earls  and  marquises,  their  etiual  at  last,  by  right 
divine  of  the  great  leveller,  Death. 

A  great  and  solenm  hush  pervaded  all  ranks,  sexes,  and 
classes.  Struck  down  in  her  sleep,  without  a  moment's  warn- 
ing, in  her  own  home — a  deep  nun-nun-,  that  was  like  the 
nuirmur  of  an  angry  sea,  ran  through  them  as  they  collected 
together. 

Who  had  done  this  deed? — the  girl  coniined  in  Chesholm 
jail,  or  her  scoundrel  brother?  1  hey  remembered  nim  well 
— like  Ishmael  of  old,  his  hand  against  every  man,  and  every 
man's  hand  against  him,  the  head  and  instigator  of  every 
poaching  fray,  or  hen-roost  robbery,  every  hght  and  evil  deed 
done  in  Cliesholm.  IJolh  brother  and  sister  hated  her — Inez 
Catheron  that  she  had  taken  her  lover  from  her — Juan  Cath- 
eroii  that  he  liad  lost  her  himself  After  Sir  Victor  he  was 
heir-at-law.  Failing  the  life  of  tl;e  infant  son,  he  might  one 
day  write  himself  Sir  Juan. 

It  was  a  hickv  th.int:,  croaked  the  Chesholm  gossiiis.  that 
Nurse  Pool  had  removed  the  baby,  else  the  dagger  that 
stabbed  the  mother  would  have  found  its  way  to  the  heart  of 
the  child.  Curse  the  black-hearted  nunderer  of  sleeping 
women  and  from  the  thrcjiig  in  the  churchyard  there  rose 
up  a  groan  to  Heaven,  and  a  hundred  angry  hearts  pledged 
themselves  to  avenge  it  if  the  law  would  nut. 


LET  MOURNING   SHOWS  BE  SJ'READ!" 


91 


"The  coroner  would  have  let  the  \'oinv^  lady  escape," 
Slid  (Hie.  "  See  how  he  snuhhed  Mrs.  I'ool,  and  how  easily 
he  let  her  betters  off.  Jf  Justice  Sniih.'y  hadn't  got  out  his 
warrant,  she'il  have  been  off  to  the  ccjiuiiient  anil  clear  away, 
\oiy^  before  this." 

"Why  don't  they  find  Juan  Cathcron?"  said  another. 
"They  .frtrv  they're  looking  for  him — why  don't  they  find  him 
then  ?  Murderers  don't  escape  so  easily  nowadays — the 
l.iw  finds  'em  if  it  wants  to  find  'em.  It's  seven  days 
since  the  murder  was  done,  and  no  tale  or  tidings  of  him 

y-'^-"  .  .   . 

"  And  when  he  is  found  neither  he  nor  his  sister  shall  es- 
cape. If  the  law  lets  them  clear,  «'t' won't.  The  time  when 
rank  could  shield  crime  is  over,  thank  Heaven.  Let  them 
hang  as  high  as  Haman — they  deserve  it.  I'll  be  the  first  to 
pull  the  roi)e." 

Day-by-day,  the  feeling  had  grown  stronger  and  bitterer, 
against  brother  and  sister.  The  I-aiglishman's  proverbial 
love  of  "  fair  play,"  seemed  for  once  forgotten.  The  merci- 
ful reasoning  of  the  law,  that  takes  every  man  to  be  innocent 
unlit  he  is  pi  oven  guilty,  was  too  lenient  to  be  listened  to. 
Tile  l^rother  had  iiuudered  her — the  sister  had  aided  and 
abetted.  Let  them  both  hang — that  was  the  vox popiili  of 
Cnesholm — hanging  was  too  gootl  for  them. 

"  How  did  she  take  her  arrest — she  was  always  as  i)roud 
as  Lucifer  and  as  haughty  as  a  duke's  daughter?"  asked 
the  curious  townfolk. 

She  had  taken  it  very  (juietly  as  though  she  had  expected 
it.  When  Lady  Helena  and  Sir  Roger  had  cried  out  in  hor- 
ror at  her  arrer^t,  she  had  stood  firm.  A  slight,  sad  smile  had 
even  crossed  her  lips. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Helena — dear  Sir  Roger,"  she  had  said, 
"  there's  nothing  to  be  surprised  at.  Don't  interfere  with 
this  man  ;  he  is  only  doing  his  duty.  1  knew  this  would 
come.  1  have  expected  it  from  the  first.  It  will  be  un- 
pleasant for  the  time — of  the  result  I  have  no  fear.  Li  these 
days,  when  so  many  guilty  escape,  it  is  not  likely  the  inno- 
cent will  be  punished.  Let  me  go  with  this  man  quietly, 
Aunt  Helena  ;  1,"  allushof  proud  i>ain  passed  over  her  face, 
"I  don't  want  the  servants — 1  don't  want  the  rabble  to  see 
me." 


92 


"RING   OUT    YOUR  BELLS  I 


She  held  out  her  haiul  to  her  aunt,  and  her  aunt's  old 
friend. 

"  (lood-by,  Aunt  Helena,"  she  said  wistfully.  "  (loud  b\-, 
Sir  l-logor.  NothiuL;  that  they  can  brini,'  against  nie  will 
shake  your  faith  in  uie,  I  know.  You  will  both  come  to  see 
nic  often,  I  hope,  and  bring  nie  news  of  poor  Victor. 
Should— 1  mean  7li/u'ii  he  recovers — don't  tell  him  of  this — - 
don't,  I  beg.  It  can  do  no  good — it  may  do  him  liarm. 
C'lood-by  once  more — give  my  love  to  Uncle  Clodfrcy.  Aunt 
Helena,  don't  distress  yourself  so  ;  1  cannot  bear  it." 

"  Do  you  think  I  will  let  you  go  alone  ?  No,  I  will  go 
with  you  to  the  prison,  if  these  besotted  wretches  i)ersist  in 
sending  you  there.  J>ut  oh,  there  iniist  be  some  mistake — 
it  is  too  atrocious.  Sir  Roger,  can't  you  do  something? 
(Jreat  Heaven!  the  idea  of  Inez  Catheron  being  lodged  in 
Chesliolm  jail  like  a  common  felon  ! '' 

•'Sir  Roger  can  do  nothing,"  Inez  answered;  "  the  law 
must  take  its  course.  Let  us  vn(\  this  painful  scene — let  us 
go  p.t  once."  She  shuddered  in  spile  of  herself  "The 
sooner  it  is  over  the  better," 

She  shook  hands  again  with  Sir  Ro'«<.'r.  A  cab  was  at  the 
door — the  old  baronet  handed  the  ladies  in,  and  stood  bare- 
headed, until  they  were  driven  out  of  sight.  They  reached 
the  square,  gloomy,  black  building  called  Chesholm  jail, 
standing  in  the  center  of  a  gloomy,  paved  ([uailrangle.  Miss 
Catheron  was  shown  to  a  room,  'i'he  jailer  had  once  been 
a  servant  in  the  Powyss  family,  and  he  pledged  himself  now 
to  make  Miss  Inez  as  comfortable  as  was  admissible  under 
the  circumstances. 

Once  in  the  dreary  room,  with  the  heavy  door  close<l  and 
locked.  Lady  Helena  suddenly  fell  down  on  the  stone  lloor 
before  her  niece  and  held  up  her  hands, 

"  Inez,''  she  said,  "  in  Heaven's  name  hear  me  !  You  are 
shielding  some  one — that  guilty  man — you  saw  him  di>  this 
deed.  Speak  out  !  Save  yourself — let  the  guilty  sutler. 
What  is  he,  that  you  should  pcri.ih  for  his  sake?  He  was  al- 
ways evil  and  guilty— forget  his  blood  Hows  in  )'our  veins — 
S[)eak  out  and  save  yourself.  Let  him  who  is  guilty  suffer 
for  his  own  crime  !  " 

The  soft  September  twilight  was  filling  the  room.  One 
pale  Hash  of  sunset  came  slanting  through  the  grated  wiiiibjvv 


IllL 


LET  MOURNIXC  SHOWS  DR   SPREAD r' 


93 


.1.1 


\vm\  fell  on  Inez  Catheron's  face.  She  stood  in  the  micklle 
of  the  lloor,  her  clasped  hands  han!:;ing  loosely  before  lu-r, 
ail  indesc'.rib  ible  expression  on  her  face. 

"  Poor  Jium,"  she  said,  wearily  ;  "don't  be  too  liard  on 
liiin,  Aunt  Helena.  We  have  none  of  us  ever  l)een  too 
jienlle  with  hini  in  his  wron;'  doinj;,  and  he  wasn't  really  bad 
at  heart  thai.  If  any  letter  should  come  from  him  to  you, 
fur  me,  say  nothing  about  it — bring  it  here.  I  don't  tliirk 
he  will  be  taken  ;  he  can  double  like  a  hare,  and  he  is  used 
to  being  hunted.  1  hope  he  is  far  away  at  sea  before  this. 
l''{)r  the  rest,  1  have  nothing  to  say — nothing.  I  can  live 
disgraced  and  die  a  felon  if  need  be,  but  not  ten  thousand 
disgraceful  deaths  can  make  me  speak  one  word  more  than 
1  choose  to  utter." 

Lady  Helena's  stifled  sobbing  filled  the  room.  "  Oh,  my 
child  I  my  child  ! "  she  cried;  "what  madness  is  tliis,  and 
for  one  so  unworthy  !  " 

"Hat  there  will  be  no  such  tragical  ending.  I  will  be 
tried  at  the  Assi/.es  and  acquitted.  They  can  t  bring  me  in 
guilty.  Jane  I'oole's  circumstancial  evidence  may  sound 
very  conclusive  in  the  ears  of  Mr.  Justice  Smiley,  but  it  won't 
bring  conviction  with  a  grand  jury.  You  see  it  wasn't  suffi- 
cient even  for  the  coroner.  The  imprisonment  here  will  be 
the  worst,  but  you  will  lighten  that.  Then  when  it  is  all 
over,  I  will  leave  England  and  go  back  to  Spain,  to  my 
UKjiher's  i)eoi)le.  They  will  receive  me  gladly,  I  know.  It 
is  growing  ilark,  Aunt  Helena — pray  don't  linger  here 
longer." 

Lady  Helena  arose,  her  flice  set  in  a  look  of  quiet,  stub- 
born resolve. 

"  Take  good  rare  of  poor  V'ict<5r,  and  watch  the  baby  well. 
He  is  the  la^t  of  iho  Oatherons  now,  you  know.  Don't  let 
any  one  apiroach  V'ictor  but  NLs.  Marsh,  and  warn  her  not 
to  speak  of  ii  ,•  .irr  'st— the  shock  might  kill  him.  I  wish — 
I  \\i>h  1  had  tic. tied  her  more  kindly  in  the  past.  I  feel  as 
thuunli  1  could  never  forgive  myself  now." 

"You  had  better  not  talk  so  much,  Inez,"  her  aunt  said, 
almost  coldly.  "  You  may  be  overheard.  I  don't  pretend 
to  understand  you.  Vou  know  best,  whetlier  he,  for  whom 
you  are  making  this  sacrifice,  deserves  it  or  not.  Good- 
night, my  poor  child — 1  will  see  you  early  to-morrow." 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER, NY.  MS80 

(716)  872-4503 


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94 


''RING   OUT    YOUR  BELLS  I 


Lady  Helena,  her  lips  set  in  that  rigid  line  of  resolve,  her 
tears  dried,  rode  back  to  Cathcron  Royals.  The  darkness 
had  fallen  by  this  time — fallen  with  black,  fastdrifiing  clouds, 
and  chill  whistling  winds.  Two  or  ihree  lights,  here  and 
there,  gleamed  along  the  lofty  facade  of  the  old  mansion,  now 
a  house  of  mourning  indeed.  Beneath  its  roof  a  foul,  dark 
murder  had  been  done — beneath  its  roof  its  niast.-r  lay  ill 
unto  death.  And  for  the  guilty  wretch  who  had  wrought 
this  ruin,  Inez  Catheron  was  to  suffer  imprisonment,  susi^ic- 
ion,  and  life-long  disgrace.  The  curse  that  the  towns-peo- 
l)le  invoked  on  Juan  Catheron,  Lady  Helena  had  it  in  her 
heart  to  echo. 

Her  first  act  was  to  dismiss  Jane  Pool,  the  nurse. 

"We  keep  servants,  not  spies  and  informers,  at  Catheron 
Royals,"  she  said,  imi)erious!y.  "  Go  to  Mrs.  Marsh — what 
is  due  you  she  will  pay.  You  leave  Catheron  Royals  with- 
out a  cl'racter,  and  at  once." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,  my  lady,"  Jane  Pool  retorted,  with  a  toss 
of  her  head.  "People  will  know  why  Pin  turned  away,  and 
Pll  get  plenty  of  places.  I  knew  I  would  lose  my  situation 
for  telling  the  truth,  but  Pm  not  the  first  that  has  suffered  in 
a  good  cause." 

1  ady  Helena  had  swept  away,  disdaining  all  leply.  She 
.'tsccnded  to  Sir  Victor's  room — the  night  lamp  burned  low, 
niourntul  shadows  filled  it.  A  trusty  nurse  sat  patiently  by 
the  bedside. 

"  How  is  he  now  ?"  asked  his  aunt,  bending  above  him. 

"  Much  the  same,  your  ladyship — in  a  sort  of  stupor  all  the 
time,  tossing  about,  and  nnittering  ceaselessly.  I  can't 
make  out  anything  he  says,  except  the  name  Ethel.  He  re- 
peats that  over  and  over  in  a  way  that  breaks  my  heart  to 
hear." 

The  name  seemed  to  catch  the  dulled  ear  of  the  delirious 
man. 

"  Ethel,"  he  said,  wearily.  "  Yes — yes  I  must  go  and 
fetch  Ethel  home.  I  wish  Inez  would  go  away — her  black 
eyes  make  one  afraid — they  follow  me  everywhere,  ii^thei 
—  Ethel — Ethel!"  He  niurnuired  the  name  dreamily,  ten- 
derly. Suddenly  he  half  started  uj)  in  bed  and  looked  about 
him  wildly.  "What  brings  Juan  Catheron's  picture  here? 
Ethel !  come  away  from    him.      How  dare  you  meet  huu 


LET  MOURNING  SHOWS   BE  SPREAD  I'' 


95 


here  alone  ?  "  He  grasped  Lady  Helena's  wrist  and  looked 
at  her  with  haggard,  bloodshot  eyes.  "  He  was  your  lover 
once — how  dare  he  come  here?  Oil,  Ethel  you  won't  leave 
nie  for  him  !  I  love  you — I  can't  live  without  you — don't 
go.     Oh,  my  Ethel !  my  Ethel  !  my  luhel  ! " 

He  fell  back  upon  the  bed  with  a  sort  of  sobbing  cry  that 
brought  the  tears  streaming  from  the  eyes  of  the  tender- 
hearted nurse. 

"  He  goes  on  like  that  continual,  my  lady,"  she  said, 
"and  its  awful  wearing.  Always  '  Ethel.'  Ah,  it's  a  dread- 
ful thing  ?  " 

"  Hooper  will  watch  with  you  to-night,  Martha,"  Lady 
Helena  said.  "  Mrs.  Marsh  will  relieve  you  to-morrow. 
No  stranger  shall  come  near  him.  I  will  take  a  look  at 
baby  before  going  home.  I  shall  return  here  early  to- 
morrow, and  I  need  not  tell  you  to  be  very  watchful ! — I 
know  you  will." 

"  Vou  needn't  indeed,  my  lady,"  the  woman  answered, 
mournfully.  "  1  was  his  mother's  own  maid,  and  I've  nursed 
him  in  my  arn)s,  a  little  white-haired  baby,  many  a  time.  I 
will  be  watchful,  my  lady." 

Lady  Helena  left  her  and  ascended  to  the  night  nursery. 
She  had  to  pass  the  room  where  the  tragedy  had  been 
enacted.  She  shivered  as  she  went  by.  She  found  the 
little  heir  of  Catheron  Royals  asleep  in  hi3  crib,  guarded  by 
the  under-nurse — head  nurse  now,  vice  Mrs.  Pool  cashiered. 

"  Take  good  care  of  him,  nurse,"  was  Lady  Helena's  last 
charge,  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  him,  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
"  poor  little  motherless  lamb." 

"  I'll  guard  him  with  my  life,  my  lady,"  the  girl  answered, 
sturdily.     "  No  harm  shall  come  to  //////." 

Lady  Helena  returned  to  Powyss  Place  and  her  con- 
valescent husband,  her  heart  lying  like  a  stone  in  her 
breast. 

"  If  I  hadn't  sent  for  Victor  that  night— if  I  had  left  him 
at  home  to  jjrotect  his  wife,   this  might   never  have   hap- 
l)ciK'(l,"  she  thought,  remorsefully  ;  "  he  would  never  luive 
lolt  her  alone  and  unprotected,  to  sleep  beside  an  open  w"" 
dow  in  the  chill  night  air." 

Amid  her  multiplicity  of  occui)ations,  amid  her  own  great 
distress,  she  had  found  time  to  write  to  Air.  Dobb  and  his 


\ 


96 


T//E  FIRST  ENDING   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 


wife  a  touching,  womanly  letter.  They  had  come  down  to 
see  their  dead  daughter  and  departed  again.  She  had  been 
taken  out  of  their  life — raised  far  above  ihein,  and  even  in 
death  they  wouKl  nut  claim  her. 

And  now  that  the  funeral  was  over,  Inez  in  prison,  the 
tnniull  and  excitement  at  an  end,  who  sliall  describe  tlie 
awful  quiet  that  fell  upon  the  old  house.  A  ghastly  stillness 
reigned — servants  spoke  in  whispers,  and  stole  from  room  to 
room — the  red  shadow  of  Minder  rested  in  their  midst. 
And  npstairs,  in  that  dusk  chamber,  while  the  nights  fell, 
Sir  Victor  lay  hovering  between  life  and  death. 


CH.M'TER  XII. 


^^H 

a 

'|B 

s 

JH 

n 

-'^^1 

h 

^^B 

A 

'H 

w 

^1 

ill 

^fl 

J: 

J^H 

lu 

^^1 

te 

^^1 

tw 

^H 

st 

H 

of 

^^1 

nc 

THE  FIRST  ENDING  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 


IGHT  days  after  the  burial  of  Lady  Catheron,  sev- 
eral events,  occurred  that  wrought  the  seething  ex- 
citement of  Chesholm  to  boiling-over  point — events 
talkeil  of  for  many  an  after  year,  by  cottage  Preside 
and  manor  hearth. 

The  first  of  these,  was  Miss  Catheron'sexamina.ion  before 
the  police  magistrate,  and  her  committal  to  jail,  until  the  as- 
sizes. The  justice  before  whom  the  young  lady  appeared 
was  the  same  who  had  already  issued  his  warrant  for  her  ar- 
vest — a  man  likely  to  show  her  little  favor  on  account  of  her 
youth,  her  beauty,  or  her  rank.  Indeed  tiie  latter  made  him 
doubly  bitter ;  he  was  a  virulent  hater  of  the  "  bloated  aris- 
tocracy." Now  that  he  had  one  of  them  in  his  power,  lie 
was  determined  to  let  the  world  at  large,  and  Chesholm  in 
small  sec  that  neither  station  nor  wealth  could  be  shields  for 
crime. 

She  took  her  place  in  the  prisoner's  dock,  pale,  proud, 
disdainful.  She  glanced  over  the  dark  sea  of  threatening 
faces  that  thronged  the  court-room,  with  calmly  haughty  eyes 
— outwardly  unmoved.  Her  few  friends  were  there — few  in- 
deed, for  nearly  all  believed  that  if  hers  was  not  the  hand 
that  had  struck  the  blow,  she  had  been  at  least  her  brother's 


THE  FIRST  ENDING   OF    THE   TRAGEDY. 


97 


own  to 
(1  been 
:vcn  in 

3n,  the 
.be  the 
itiUness 
ooin  to 
midst. 
Its  fell, 


on,  sev- 
hing  ex- 
— L'vcnts 
:  fireside 


)n  before 
il  the  as- 
iippoarcd 
ir  her  ar- 
int  of  her 
nade  hini 
ited  aris- 
lowor,  he 
ishol.n  in 
hields  for 

le,  proud, 
reatening 
ighty  eyes 
'__fo\v  ih- 
ihe  hand 
brother's 


abettor.  Many  were  bronglit  forward  who  could  swear  how 
she  Iiad  hated  my  lady  ;  how  she  had  taken  every  opportn- 
iiitv  to  insult  and  annoy  iier  ;  how  again  and  again  my  lady 
had  been  found  crying  lit  to  bn-ak  her  heart  aficr  the  lash  of 
Miss  Inez's  stinging  tongue.  She  had  hjved  Sir  Victor — she 
was  furiously  jealous  of  his  wife — she  had  fu-ry  Spanish  Ijlood 
in  her  vx-ins,  and  a  passionate  temper  that  stopped  at  nothing, 
jane  Pool  was  there,  more  bitter  than  ever — more  deadly  m 
Ikt  evidence.  Iloojjer  was  there,  and  his  reluctantly  cxtoitcd 
testimony  told  dead  against  her.  'I'he  examination  lasted 
two  days.  lne<;  Catheron  was  rc-connnitted  to  prison  to 
stand  her  trial  for  nnucler  at  the  next  assi/cs. 

The  second  fiict  worthy  of  note  was,  thatdesjiite  the  etTorts 
of  the  Cheshohn  police,  in  spite  of  the  J^ondon  detectives, 
no  tale  or  tidings  of  Juan  Catheron  were  to  be  found.  The 
earth  might  have  opened  and  swallowed  him,  so  completely 
had  he  disappeared. 

The  third  fact  was,  that  Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  reached 
the  crisis  of  his  disease  and  passed  it  safely.  The  fever  was 
slowly  but  steadily  abating.  Sir  Victor  was  not  to  die.  but 
to  "take  up  the  burden  of  life  again'' — a  dreary  bmden, 
with  tlK  wife  he  had  loved  so  fondly,  sleeping  in  the  vaults 
of  Chesholm  Church. 

The  fourth  fact  was,  that  the  infant  heir  of  the  Cathcrons 
had  been  vjnioved  from  Cathe'on  Royals  to  I'owvss  Place,  to 
be  brought  uj)  under  the  watchful  eye  and  care  of  his  grand- 
aunt,  Lady  Helena. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  that  saw  Inez  Catheron  com- 
mitted for  trial,  the  ]iost  brought  Lady  Helena  a  letter.  The 
handwriting,  evidently  disguised,  was  imfiimiliar,  and  yet 
sonicthirg  about  it  set  her  heart  throbbing  She  tore  it  open  ; 
it  contained  an  inclosure.  There  were  but  three  lines  for 
herself: 

"  Dear  Lady  IL:  If  you  will  permit  a  rej^robatc  to  be  on 
such  familiar  terms  with  your  highly  respectable  namt-,  I  ad- 
dress I ,  under  cover  to  you,  as  per  order.  J.  C." 

The  inclosure  was  sealed.  Lady  Helena  destroyed  her 
own,  and  next  day  drove  to  the  jirison  with  the  other.  Slie 
found  her  niece  sitting  comfortably  enough  in  an  arm-chair, 

C 


98 


THE  FIRST  E\'DING   OF    THE    TRAGEDY. 


reading,  and  except  that  she  had  grown  thinner  and  paler, 
looking  little  the  worse.  All  that  it  was  possible  to  do,  to 
make  her  comfortable,  had  been  done.  Without  a  word  the. 
elder  woman  presented  the  letter — without  a  word  the 
younger  took  it.  She  turned  to  the  window  and  read  ils 
brief  contents. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  her  aunt  heard  her  fervently  say. 
''  May  I  see  it,  Inez  ?     What  does  he  say  ?     Is  he  coming 
here  to — " 

"  Commg  here  !  "  The  girl's  dark  eyes  looked  at  her  in 
grave  astonishment.  "  Certainly  not.  He  is  safe  away,  I 
am  thankful  to  say,  and  out  of  their  reach." 

"  And  he  leaves  you  here  to  suffer  in  his  stead,  and  you 
thank  Heaven  for  it  !  Inez  Catheron,  you  are  the  most 
egregious — .     Give  me  that  note  ! " 

Inez  smiled  as  she  gave  it.  Her  aunt  put  up  her  double 
eye-glass,  and  read : 

"On  Board  the  Thrfe  Bells,  ) 
"Ofi- Plymouth,  Oct. — .  \ 
"Dear  I.: — I've  dodged  the  beaks,  you  see.  I  bought  a 
disguise  that  would  have  baflled  Fouche  himself,  and — here 
I  am.  In  twenty  minutes  we'll  have  weighed  anchor  and 
away  to  the  West  Indies.  I've  read  the  papers,  and  I'm 
sorry  to  see  they've  taken  you  on  suspicion.  Inez,  you're  a 
trump,  by  Jove  !  I  can  say  no  more,  but  mind  you,  only  I 
know  they  can't  commit  you,  I'd  come  back  and  confess  all. 
I  would,  by  jingo.  I  may  be  a  scoundrel,  but  I'm  not  such 
a  scoundrel  as  that. 

"I  see  the  baronet's  down  with  brain  fever.  If  he  goes 
off  the  hooks,  there  will  be  only  the  young  'un  between  me 
and  the  succession.  Suppose  he  goes  off  the  hooks  too,  then 
I'll  be  a  fiillfledgod  baronet !  But  of  course  he  won't.  I'm 
always  an  unlucky  beggar.  You  may  write  me  on  board  the 
Three  Bells,  at  Martinique,  and  let  me  know  how  things  go 
on  in  England.  J." 

A  flush — a  deep  angry  flush  reddened  the  face  of  Lady 
Helena  Powyss,  as  she  finished  this  cool  epistle.  She  crushed 
it  in  her  hand  as  though  it  were  a  viper. 

"The  coward!  the  dastard!  And  it  is  for  the  iieartless 
writer  of  this  insolent  letter  that  you  suffer  all  this.     Inez 


tall. 


THE    FIRST  F.XD/Xu    OF    77/ F    TRAGEDY. 


99 


d  paler, 
t)  do,  to 
,'ord  die 
ord  the 
read  its 

iay. 

;  coming 

It  her  in 


away, 


I 


and  you 
;he  most 

:r  double 

LLS,  ) 

bought  a 

nd — here 

:hor   and 

and  I'm 

you're  a 

)u,  only  I 

)nfess  all. 

not  such 

f  he  goes 
ween  me 

too,  then 
)n't.  I'm 
board  the 

things  go 

J-" 

e  of  Lady 
10  crushed 

;  heartless 
his.     Ine^ 


Cathcron,  I  command  you — speak  out.  Tell  what  you  know. 
J ,rl  the  iViihy  wretch  yoii  call  hrotlier,  suffer  for  liis  own  criiiu;.  ' 

IiiLV,  K)i)k'j(l  at  her,  with  somcthinL;  of  llie  stern,  luiui^luy 
glance  she  luul  east  upon  the  rabble  of  th«_  court  room. 

"  Enough,  Lady  Helena!  You  don't  know  wiiat  you  are 
tallciiig  about.  I  Iiave  told  you  before;  all  I  had  to  say  1 
;ud  at  the  inquest.  I'  is  of  no  use  our  talking  about  it. 
Couu'  what  may,  I  will  i    ver  say  one  word  more." 

And  looking  at  her  sten.  resolute  face.  Lady  Helena  knew 
she  never  would.  She  tore  the  letter  she  i>eld  into  minutest 
morsels,  and  tied  them  up  in  her  handkerchief. 

"  I'll  burn  them  wiien  1  get  home,  and  I  never  want  to 
hear  his  name  again.  For  you,"  lowering  her  voice,  ''  we 
nnst  save  you  in  si)ite  of  yourself.  You  shall  never  stand 
your  trial  at  the  assizes." 

Miss  Catherton  looked  wistfully  at  the  heavily  bolted  and 
barred  window. 

"  1  siiould  like  to  be  saved,"  she  said,  wearily,  "  at  any 
otiicr  price  dian  tiiat  of  speaking.  Once  1  thought  I  would 
die  sooner  than  stoop  to  run  aw.'^.y — a  fortnight's  imprison- 
ment changes  all  that.  Save  me  if  you  can,  Aunt  Helena — 
it  will  kill  me  to  face  that  horrible  mob  again." 

Her  voice  died  out  in  a  choking  sob.  She  was  thorouL;hly 
brave,  but  she  shuddered  with  sick  fear  and  loathing,  from 
head  to  foot,  as  she  recalled  the  dark,  vindictive  facs,  the 
merciless  eyes  that  had  coiuronted  her  yesterday  on  every 
side. 

Lady  Helena  kissed  her  quietly  and  turned  to  go. 

"  Keep  uj)  heart,"  she  said  ;  "  before  the  week  ends  vou 
sliall  be  free." 

Two  days  later,  Lady  Helena  and  the  warden  of  Chesholm 
j.iil  sat  closeted  together  in  deep  an'  mysterious  conference. 
On  the  table  between  them  lay  a  crossed  check  for  seven 
thousand  pounds. 

The  jailor  sat  with  knitted  brows  and  troubled,  anxious 
fice.  II(i  had  been  for  vears  a  servant  in  Lady  Helena's 
funily.  Her  inlluence  h;id  procured  him  his  present  situation. 
He  had  a  sick  wife  and  a  large  fLimily,  and  seven  thousand 
l)ounds  was  an  immense  temptation. 

"Y>)u  risk  nothing,"  Laily  Helena  was  saying,  in  an  agi- 
tated whisper,  "  and  you  gain  everything.     They  will  blame 


ICO     THE  FIRST  EXDING   OF   T/fF    TRAGEDY. 


you  for  nothing  worse  tlian  carelessness  in  the  dischaige  of 
your  duty.  Voii  may  lose  \  our  sittiation.  Very  well,  lose  it. 
Here  are  seven  thousand  pounds  for  you.  In  all  your  life, 
grubbing  here,  you  would  never  accumulate  half  or  quarter 
that  sum.  You  can  remove  to  London  ;  trust  to  my  inlluence 
to  procure  you  a  better  situation  there  than  this.  And  oh, 
think  of  /ur — young,  guiltless — think  what  her  life  has  been, 
think  what  it  is  now  destined  to  be.  She  is  innocent — I 
swear  it.  You  have  danglUers  of  your  own^  about  her  age — 
think  of  them  and  yield  !  " 

He  stretched  forth  his  hand  and  answered,  resolutely  : 
"  Say  no  more,  my  lady.     Let  good  or  ill  betide — I'll  do 
it." 

The  issue  of  the  Chcshohn  Courier  four  days  later  con- 
tained d  paragraph  that  created  the  profonndest  excitement 
from  end  to  end  of  the  town.     We  quote  it : 

"  Escape  of  Miss  Inez  Cathf.ron  from  Chesholm  Jail 
— Xo  Trace  of  Her  to  he  Found — Suspected  Foul 
Play — The  Jailer  Threatened  by  the  Mob. 

"  Early  on  the  morning  of  Tuesday  the  under  jailer,  go- 
ing to  Nliss  Catheron's  cell  with  her  breakfast,  found,  to  his 
astonishment  and  dismay,  that  it  was  empty  and  his  pris- 
oner flown. 

"A  moment's  investigation  showed  him  the  bars  of  the 
window  cleanly  filed  through  and  removed.  A  rope  ladder 
and  a  friend  without,  it  is  quite  evident,  did  the  rest.  The 
man  instantly  gave  the  alarm  and  aid  came.  The  head 
jailer  apj>ears  to  be  as  much  at  a  loss  as  his  underling,  but 
he  is  suspected.  He  lived  in  his  youth  in  the  I'owyss 
family,  and  was  suspected  of  a  strong  attachment  to  the 
prisoner.  He  says  he  visited  Miss  Catheron  last  night  as 
usual  when  on  his  rounds,  and  saw  nothing  wrong  or  suspi- 
cious then,  either  about  the  filed  bars  or  the  young  lady. 
It  was  a  very  dark  night,  and  no  doubt  her  escape  was 
easily  enough  effected.  If  any  proof  of  the  i)risoner's  guilt 
were  needed,  her  flight;  from  justice  surely  renders  it.  Kliss 
Catheron's  friends  have  been  permitted  from  the  fust  to 
visit  her  at  their  pleasure  and  bring  her  what  they  chose — 
the  result  is  to  be  seen  to-day.     'I'he  police,  both  of  our 


Fthifti 
Ti 
Itiou. 
lena, 

V'ere 
Ibaroi 

Urs. 


rilE  FIRST  ENDING   OF  THE    TRAGEDY,      jqi 


arge  of 
lose  it. 
)iir  life, 
(liKirtcr 
ilhioncc 
\i-k1  oil, 
IS  been, 
cent — I 


:elv  : 
-I'll  do 

tor  con- 
citement 


)i.M  Jail 

ED  I'OUL 
B. 

ailer,  go- 
d,  to  his 
his  pris- 

rs  of  the 
le  ladder 
;st.     The 

he  head 
rling,  but 
Towyss 
it  to  the 

night  as 

or  suspi- 
img  lady, 
cape  was 
ner's  guilt 

it.  Miss 
le  fust  to 
y  chose — 
th  of  our 


town  and  the  metropolis,  are  diligently  at  work.  It  is 
hoped  their  labors  will  be  more  productive  of  success  in 
the  case  of  the  sister  than  they  have  been  in  that  of  the 
biolher. 

"The  head  jailer,  it  is  said,  will  be  dismissed  from  his 
liost.  No  doubt,  pecuniarily,  this  is  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence to  him  now.  He  made  his  appearance  once  in  the 
street  this  morning,  and  came  near  being  mobbed.  Let 
tiiis  escai)e  be  rigidly  investigated,  and  let  all  implicated  be 
punishetl." 

The  escape  created  even  more  intense  and  angry  excite- 
ment than  the  murder.  The  rabble  were  furious.  It  is  not 
every  day  that  a  young  lady  of  the  upper  ten  thousand 
comes  before  the  lower  ten  million  in  the  popular  character 
of  a  murderess.  They  had  been  lately  favored  with  such 
rich  and  sensational  disclosures  in  high  life,  love,  jealousy, 
quarrels,  assas,  ination.  Their  victim  was  safely  in  their 
hands ;  they  would  try  her,  condenni  her,  hang  her,  and 
teach  the  aristocracy,  law  was  a  game  two  could  play  at. 
And  lo  !  in  the  hour  of  their  triumi)li,  she  slips  from  between 
tiuir  hands,  and,  like  her  guilty  brother  and  abettor,  makes 
good  h(.r  escape. 

The  town  of  Chesholni  was  furious.  If  the  jailer  had 
shown  his  face  he  stood  in  danger  of  being  torn  to  pieces. 
'1  hey  understood  thoroughly  how  it  was — that  he  had  been 
bribed.  In  the  dead  of  niglil,  the  man  and  his  family  shook 
the  dust  of  Chesholni  off  their  feet,  and  went  to  hide  them- 
selves in  the  busy  world  of  London. 

Three  weeks  passed.  October,  with  its  mellow  days  and 
[frosty  nights,  was  gone.  And  still  no  trace  of  the  fugitive. 
[All  the  skill  of  the  officials  of  the  town  and  country  had 
Ibcen  bafllcd  by  the  cunning  of  a  woman.  Inez  Catheron 
Imight  have  flown  with  the  dead  summer's  swallows  for  all 
Ithe  trace  hhe  had  left  behind. 

The  fust  week  of  November  brought  still  another  revela- 
Ition.     Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  left  the  Royals  ;  Lady  Hel- 
ena, the  s(]uire,  the  b;i.by,  the  nurse,  Powyss  I'lace.     They 
wcie   all   going    to    the    south    of    France    for  the    young 
Ibaionet's  spirits  and  health.     Catheron  Royals,  in  charge  of 
drs.  Marsh  and  Mr.  Hooper,  and  two  servants,  on  board 
yagcs,  was  left  to  silence  and  gloom,  rats  and  evil  repute, 


102      THE  FIRST  ENDING   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 


aiitumiKil  rain  and  wind.     Tlio    room    of  the  tragedy    was 
sli'it  np,  a  doomed  room,  "under  the  ban"  fon-ver. 

And  so  for  t!ie  present  the  "  tra;_^e(ly  of  Catheron  Royals" 
had  ended.  IJrotlier  and  sister  had  lied  in  their  guilt,  ahtco 
from  justice  and  vengeance.  Ethel,  Lady  Catheron,  lay 
widi  folded  hands  and  sealed  lips  in  tiie  grim  old  vaults,  and 
a  parchment  and  a  monument  in  Chesholm  Church  recorded 
her  name  and  age — no  more.  So  for  the  present  it  had 
end'^d. 


,'i,dy  was 
r. 

1  Royals" 
ni'.l,  alike 
icron,  lay 
aults,  and 
1  recorded 
;nt  it  lud 


PART   II. 


CHAPTER  L 


MISS    DARRELL. 


Y  had  been  a  week  of  ceaseless  rain — the  whole 
country  side  was  sodden.  The  month  was  March, 
and  after  an  unusually  severe  January  and  February, 
a  "  soft  spell "  had  come,  the  rain  had  poured  or 
dripped  incessantly  from  a  smoke-colored  sky,  the  state  of 
the  earth  was  only  to  be  described  by  that  one  uncomfortable 
word  "  slush."  Spring  was  at  hand  after  a  horribly  bitter 
winter — a  spring  that  was  all  wet  and  slop,  miserable  east- 
erly winds,  and  bleak,  drizzling  rain. 

Perhaps  if  you  searched  the  whole  coast  line  between 
Maine  and  Florida,  you  could  not  light  upon  a  drearier, 
dirtier,  duller  little  town  than  the  town  of  Sandypoint, 
Massachusetts.  It  was  a  straggling  i)lace,  more  village  than 
town,  consisting  mainly  of  one  long  street,  filled  with  frame 
houses  of  staring  white,  picked  out  with  red  doors  and 
very  green  shutters.  Half  a  dozen  pretentious  "stores," 
a  school-house,  one  or  two  churches,  a  town  hall,  and  three 
hotels,  comprised  the  public  buildings.  Behind  Sandypoi.it 
stretched  out  the  "forest  primevui;"  before  Sandypoint 
spread  away  its  one  beauty,  the  bright,  broad  sea. 

To-day  it  looked  neither  bright  nor  broad,  but  all  blurred 
in  gray  wet  mist ;  the  surf  cannonaded  the  shore  with  its 
dull  thunder  ;  the  woodland  in  the  background  was  a  very 
black  forest  in  the  dreariness,  and  the  roads — who  shall 
paint  the  state  of  the  Sandypoint  roads  ?  Worst  of  all,  the 
weather  showed  no  sign  of  relenting,  no  symptoms  of  clear- 


104 


AIJSS  DARPELL. 


I'no;  ii]'*.  The  new  clock  recently  alfixcd  to  tlic  S.in(l\  point 
'J'own  Hall,  was  strikiiii;  tin'  matutinal  lumi  ot"  ii'ii.  'I  Iv  >)i)|)- 
Illation  of  Sandypoint  ini^lit  all  liavo  Wxw  dead  and  biiiiod, 
for  anv  sit^n  of  life  liuK-pcntli-nte  s'reet  showed.  Doors 
and  wiiulows  were  all  closed  in  a  nielaiviholy  w.iy — a  slia\, 
dra:^gleil  dog  the  only  living  creatine  to  be  seen. 

(_)r  stay — no!  there  vvas  p  'il  besides  the  doj;,  almost  as 
draggled  as  her  tourfootfd  coninanion.  A  girl  of  eighteen, 
])erhaps,  who  widked  along  thrcKigh  rain  and  discomfort,  with- 
out so  much  a.,  an  umbrella  to  jirotect  her.  She  had  come 
out  of  one  oi  the  iigliest  of  the  ugly  buildings  nearest  the 
sea,  and  walked  along  in  a  slii):.hod  sort  of  way,  never  turn- 
ing to  the  right  or  left  to  avoid  an  unusually  deep  puddle. 
She  plunged  right  on  through  it  all — a  dark,  sullen-looking 
girl  in  a  shabby  l)lack  dress,  a  red  and  black  tartan  shawl, 
an  old  black  felt  hat  with  dingy  red  flowers,  long  past  being 
spoilt  by  rain  or  wind. 

And  yet  she  was  a  pretty  girl  too — a  very  i^n  tty  girl. 
Take  the  Venus  Celestis,  plump  her  down  in  a  muddy  road 
in  a  rainstorm,  dress  her  in  a  draggled  black  alpaca,  a  faded 
shawl,  and  shocking  bad  hat,  and  what  can  you  say  for  your 
goddess  but  that  she  isn't  a  bad-looking  young  woman  ? 
Miss  Edith  Darrell  labors  under  all  these  disadvantages  at 
present.  More — she  looks  sulky  and  sour  ;  it  is  evident  her 
personal  appearance  has  troubled  her  very  little  this  dismal 
March  morning.  And  yet  as  you  look  at  her,  at  those  big 
black  somber  eyes,  at  those  almost  classically  regular  fea- 
tures, at  all  that  untidy  abundance  of  blackish  brown  hair, 
you  think  involuntarily  "  what  a  pretty  girl  that  might  be  if 
she  only  combed  her  hair,  put  on  a  clean  dress,  and  wasn't 
in  bad  temper  !  " 

She  is  tall,  she  is  slender — there  is  a  supple  grace  about 
her  even  now — she  has  shapely  feet  and  hands.  She  is  a 
brunette  of  the  most  pronounced  type,  widi  a  skin  like 
creamy  velvet,  just  touched  on  either  ripe  cheek  with  a 
peach  like  glow,  and  with  lips  like  cherries.  You  know  wiLh- 
out  seeing  her  laugh,  that  she  has  very  white  teeth.  She  is 
in  no  way  inclined  to  show  her  white  teeth  laughingly  this 
morning.  She  goes  steadily  along  to  her  destination — one  of 
the  "  stores  "  where  groceries  anil  provisions  are  sold.  The 
storekeeper  smilingly  accjsts  her  with  a  brisk  "  Good-morn- 


M/SS  DARRELL. 


105 


ni;^,  Miss  Darrcll  !     Whu'd  Ii;ivo  thought  of  seeing  yoii  out 
lliis  n,i>ty  \vlu:tl;ei-  ?     Can  I  do  anything  for  you  to-day  ?  " 

'•  If  you  couldn't  do  anythinij;  for  nic,  Mr.  WcbstL-r,"  an- 
swers Aliss  Darrcli,  in  no  vciy  conciliatory  tone,  "it  isn't 
likely  you'd  see  nie  in  your  shop  this  morning.  Ciive  me  one 
poiuul  of  tea,  one  pound  of  coffee,  three  pounds  of  brown 
su^ar,  and  a  (lujrter  of  starch.  Put  them  in  this  basket,  and 
I'll  call  for  them  when  I'm  ^  ling  home." 

She  goes  out  again  into  the  rain,  and  makes  her  way  to 
an  em[)orium  whcc  ilry  goods,  boots  and  shoes,  milinery, 
and  crockery  are  for  sale.  A  sandy-haired  young  man,  with 
a  sandy  nuistache  and  a  tendency  to  blushes,  springs  forward 
at  sight  of  her,  as  though  galvanized,  reddening  to  the  florid 
roots  of  his  hair. 

"  Miss  Darrell  1 "  he  cries,  in  a  sort  of  rapture.  "  Who'd 
a  thought  it  ?  So  early  in  the  morning,  and  without  an  um- 
brella !     How's  your  pa  and  ma,  and  all  the  children  ?  " 

"  My  pa  and  ma,  and  all  the  children  are  veil  of  course," 
I  the  young  lady  answers,  impatiently,  as  though  it  were  out  of 
j  the  natiue  oS.  things  for  anything  to  ail  her  family.    "  Mr.  Doo- 
liitle,  1  want  six  yards  of  crash  for  kitchen  towels,  three  pairs 
of  shoes  for  the  children,  and  two  yards  and  a  half  of  stone- 
colored  ribbon  for  Mrs.  Darrell's  drab   bonnet.      And  be 
[quick." 

The  blushes  and  emotion  of  young  Mr.  Doolittle,  it  was 
[quite  evident,  were  entirely  thrown  away  upon  Miss  Darrell. 
J"  Not  at  home  to  lovers,"  was  \)Iainly  written  on  her  moody 
[brow  and  impatient  lips.  So  Mr.  Doolittle  produced  the 
Ici  ash  and  cut  otf  the  si.x  yards,  the  three  pairs  of  shoes  were 
|l)i(;ked  out,  and  the  stoniest  of  the  stone  colors  chosen,  the 
pu.rcel  tied  up  and  paid  for. 

"We  didn't  see  you  up  to  Squire  Whipple's  surprise  party 
last  night,  Miss  Edith,"  .Mr.  Doolittle  timidly  ventured,  with 
strong  "Down  East"  accent.  "  We  had  a  hunky  supper 
111(1  a  rale  good  time." 

"No,  you  didn't  see  me,  Mr.  Doolittle,  and  I  don't  think 
I'oii'ie  likely  to  in  a  hurry,  eitluM-.  The  deadly  liveliness  of 
xuulypoiiit  surprise  parlies,  and  the  beauty  of  Sandyi)oint, 
nul  its  beastly  weather  are  about  on  a  par — the  parties,  if 
Miy thing,  the  most  dismal  of  the  three." 
1  ith  which  the  young  lady  went  out  with  a  cool  parting 
5* 


io6 


JI//SS  DARl'iLLL. 


nod.  Tlicrc  was  one  more  ciTan<l  lo  go^ — this  one  for  lier- 
bulf.  It  was  to  the  post-office,  and  even  the  old  post-master 
lit  up  into  a  smile  of  welcome  at  sight  of  his  visitor.  It  was 
evident,  that  when  in  good  temper  Miss  Darrell  must  be 
ratiier  a  favorite  in  the  neighborhood. 

"Letters  for  you?  Well,  y*-'s,  Miss  Edie,  I  think  there 
is.  Wiiat's  this?  Miss  Edith  S.  Darrell,  Sandypoint 
Mass.  Tliat's  for  you,  and  from  New  York  again,  I  see. 
Ah  I  I  hoi)e  none  o'  them  York  cliaps  will  be  coming  down 
here  to  carry  away  tiie  best-luokin'  gal  in  town." 

He  handed  her  the  letter.  For  a  moment  her  dark  face 
lit  up  with  ail  eager  iliish  ;  as  she  took  the  letter  it  fell.  It 
was  sui>erscribed  in  a  girl's  spidery  tracery,  sealed  with  blue 
wax,  and  a  sentimental  French  seal  and  motto. 

"  From  Trixy,"  she  said,  under  her  breath  ;  "  and  I  felt 
sure  there  would  be  one  from — Are  you  sure  this  is  all,  Mr. 
Merriweather  ?     I  expected  another." 

"  Sure  and  certain.  Miss  Edie.  Sorry  to  disappoint  you, 
bnt  that's  all.  Never  mind,  my  dear — he'll  write  by  next 
mail." 

She  turned  shortly  away,  putting  the  letter  in  her  pocket. 
Her  face  relapsed  again,  into  what  seemed  its  habitual  look 
ot  gloom  and  discontent. 

"  He's  like  all  the  rest  of  tiie  world,"  she  thought,  bitterly, 
"  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind.  1  was  a  fool  to  think  he  would 
remember  me  long.  I  only  wonder  I'eatrix  takes  the 
trouble  of  writing  to  this  dead-and-alive  place.  One  thing 
is  very  certain — she  won't  do  it  long." 

She  returned  for  her  parcels,  and  set  out  on  her  wet  re- 
turn walk  home.  Mr.  Doolittle  volunteered  to  escort  iier 
thither,  but  she  made  short  work  of//////.  Through  tiiciain, 
through  the  slop,  wet,  col("  comfortless,  the  girl  left  tiie 
ugly  town  behiml  her,  and  came  out  on  the  lonely  road  that 
led  along  to  the  sea.  I'ive  minutes  more,  brought  her  in 
sight  of  her  home — a  forlorn  house,  standing  bleak  and  bare 
on  a  cliff  One  path  led  to  it — another  to  tiie  sands  below. 
At  the  point  where  she  must  turn  either  way.  Miss  Darrell 
stood  still  and  looked  moodily  up  at  the  house. 

"  If  I  go  there,"  she  muttered,  "she'll  set  me  to  hem  tht- 
towels,  or  trim  the  bonnet,  or  make  a  pudding  for  dinner. 
It's  wash  day,  and  I  know  what  that  means  in  our  house.     1 


i1//6.b-  DARHELL. 


107 


li'oitt  go — it's  better  out  in  the  rain  ;  the  towels  and  the 
drab  bonnet  may  j^o  an  dlablc,  and  my  blessed  stepmother 
with  thcMu,  if  it  conies  to  that.." 

She  turned  sharj^ly  and  took  the  path  to  the  right.  Half 
way  down  slie  came  to  a  sort  of  projection  in  the  cliff,  partly 
slK-ltered  from  the  rain  by  a  clump  of  spruce-trees.  Seating 
herself  on  this,  with  the  grey  sea  sending  its  flying  spray 
almost  up  in  her  face,  she  drew  forth  her  letter,  broke  the 
seal,  and  read : 

New  York,  March  13,  18 — . 

"  Df.arest  Dithy  : — Just  half-an-hour  ago  I  came  home 
from  a  splendid  ball,  the  most  sjjlendid  by  far  of  the  winter, 
and  before  one  ray  of  all  its  brilliance  fades  from  my  frivo- 
luiis  mind,  let  me  sit  down  and  tell  you  all  .about  it  if  1  can. 

"The  ball  was  held  at  the  De  Rooyter  house,  up  the 
avenue,  in  honor  of  their  distinguished  English  guests,  Lady 
Helena  Powyss,  of  Powyss  Place,  Cheshire,  and  Sir  Victor 
Callieron,  of  Catheron  Royals,  Cheshire.  How  grand  the 
titles  sound  !  My  very  i)en  expands  as  it  writes  those  patri- 
cian names.  Lady  Helena.  Oh,  Dithy !  how  delicious  it 
must  be  to  be,  '  My  Lady  ! ' 

"  What  did  I  wear,  you  ask  ?  Well,  my  dear,  I  wore  a 
lovely  trained  green  silk — gas-light  green,  you  know,  under 
white  tuile,  all  looped  up  with  trailing  si)rays  of  lily  of  the 
valley  and  grasses — ditto,  ditto,  in  my  hair,  and  just  one  i)ink, 
half-blown  rose.  A  trying  costume  you  say  ?  Yes,  I  know 
i^  but  you  see,  the  only  beauty  jioor  'I'rixy  can  claim  is  a 
tolerable  pink  and  white  comjilexion,  and  a  decent  head 
of  light  brown  hair.  So  I  carried  it  off — everyone  says  I 
really  looked  my  very  I;  'st,  and — don't  set  this  down  to  van- 
ity dear — the  gentiemen's  eyes  indorsed  it.  I  danced  all 
night,  and  here  is  where  the  rapture  comes  in.  three  times 
with  the  ba:onet.  I  can't  say  much  for  his  waltzing,  but  he's 
delightful,  Uithy — charming.  Could  a  baronet  be  anything 
else  ?  He  talks  with  l!iat  delightful  English  accent,  which 
it  is  impossible  to  imitate  or  describe — he  is  very  young, 
about  three-and-twenly,  I  should  judge,  and  really  (n,  that 
blonde  English  way)  very  hand^ciine.  His  hair  is  very  light 
--he  has  large,  lovely,  short-sighted  blue  eyes,  and  wears  an 
eye-glass.     Now,  I  think  an  ej'e-glass  is  distinguished  look- 


io8 


J//SS  DARRr.LL. 


\\v^  in  itself,  and  it  is  haut  ton  to  lie  short  sighted.  Why  are 
ih jy  in  New  York  du  1  hoar  you  siy  ?  Lady  ilcL-na  was 
recommended  a  sea  voyage  for  her  health,  and  her  nephew 
accompanied  lier.  Lady  Helena  is  not  young  nor  beautiful, 
as  you  might  imagine,  but  a  fair,  fat,  and  sixty,  I  should  say, 
British  matron.  She  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  ALirquis  of 
St.  Albans,  and  a  widow,  her  husband  having  died  some 
time  ago.  And  they  are  immensely  rich.  Lmmensely, 
Dithy !  Capitals  can't  do  justice  to  it.  And  of  course  all 
the  young  ladies  last  niglit  were  making  a  dead  set  at  the 
young  baronet.  Oh,  Ditliy — child,  if  he  should  only  fall  in 
love  with  me — with  me,  and  make  me  Lady  Catheron,  I  be- 
lieve I  should  just  die  of  pure  ecstasy  (is  that  word  spelled 
light  ?)  like  Lord  Berleigh's  bride  in  the  story.  Fancy  your- 
self reading  it  in  the  papers  : 

"  '  On  the  — th  inst,  by  the  Rev.  Blank  Blank,  assisted 
by  etc.,  etc,  at  the  residence  of  the  bride's  father.  Sir  Victor 
Catheron,  Baronet,  of  Catheron  Royals,  Cheshire,  England, 
to  Beatrix  Marie  Stuart,  only  daughter  of  James  Stuart,  Esq., 
banker  of  Fifth  avenue,  New  York.     No  Cards! 

"  Dithy,  think  of  it  1  It  makes  my  brain  swim,  and 
stranger  things  have  happened.  My  twentieth  birthday 
comes  next  week,  and  ma  gives  a  large  party,  and  Lady  H. 
and  Sir  V.  are  coming.  I  am  to  wear  a  pink  silk  with  trim- 
mings of  real  point,  and  pa  sent  home  a  set  of  pearls  from 
Tiffany's  yesterday,  for  which  he  gave  §r,ooo.  If  the  rose 
silk  and  pearls  fail  to  finish  him,  then  there  is  another  pro- 
ject on  i  e  carpet.  It  is  this.  Lady  H.  and  Sir  V.  go  home 
the  first  week  of  May,  and  we  are  going  with  them  in  the 
same  ship.  I  say  we — pa,  ma,  Charley,  and  me.  Won't  it 
be  lovely  ?  If  you  were  coming,  you  might  write  a  book 
about  our  haps  and  mishaps.  I  think  they  will  equal  the 
'  Dodd  Family  Abroad.'  Seriously,  though,  Edith  dear,  I 
wish  you  were  coming  with  us.  It's  a  burning  siiame  that 
you  should  be  buried  alive  down  in  that  poky  Sandypoint, 
with  your  cleverness,  antl  your  accomplishments,  and  good 
looks,  and  everything.  If  1  marry  the  baronet,  Dilh,  I  shall 
like  you  with  me  to  England,  and  you  sliall  live  happy  for- 
ever after. 

"  I  set  out  to  tell  you  of  the  De  Rooyter  ball,  and  see 


MISS  DARRELL. 


109 


hvow  I  run  on.  All  New  York  was  there — the  crush  was 
awful,  the  music  excellent,  the  supper — heavenly  !  Sir  Vic- 
tor likes  us  Americans  so  much  ;  but  then  who  could  help 
liking  us  ?  Oh,  it  has  been  a  charming  winter — parties 
somewhere  every  night.  Nilsson  singing  for  us,  some 
slcigliing,  and  skating  no  end.  I  have  had  the  loveliest  skat- 
ing costume,  of  violet  velvet,  satin  and  ermine — words  can't 
CiO  it  justice. 

"  Hark !  A  clock  down-stairs  strikes  five,  and,  '  Kath- 
i.'cn  Mavourneen,  the  grey  dawn  is  breaking'  over  the  de- 
serted city  streets.  As  Lady  Macbeth  says,  '  To  bed — to 
bed  ! '  With  endless  love,  and  endless  kisses,  ever  thine 
own. 

"  Beatrix.  " 

She  finished  the  letter — it  dropped  uj^on  her  laj),  and  her 
large,  dark  eyes  looked  blankly  out  over  the  cold,  gray, 
rain-beaten  sea.  This  was  the  life  she  longed  for,  prayetl 
for,  dreamed  of,  the  life  for  which  she  would  have  sold  half 
the  years  of  her  life.  The  balls,  the  operas,  tiie  rose  silks 
and  pearls,  the  booths  and  merry -go  rounds  of  Vanity  Fair. 
She  thirsted  for  them  as  the  blind  lliirst  for  sight.  She  longed 
for  tlie  "halls  of  dazzling  light,"  the  dainty  dishes,  the  violet 
velvet  and  ermine,  with  a  longing  no  words  can  paint.  She 
li  ul  youth  and  beauty  ;  she  would  have  suited  the  life  as 
the  Hfe  suited  her.  Nature  had  made  her  for  it,  and  Fate 
had  planted  her  here  in  the  dreariest  of  all  dreary  sea-coast 
towns. 

The  rain  beat  upon  her  uncovered  head,  the  cold  wind 
blew  in  her  face — she  felt  neither.  Her  heart  was  full  of 
tunuilt,  revolt,  bitterness  untold. 

IJealrix  Stuart's  father  had  been  her  dead  mother's  cousin. 
AVhy  was  Beatrix  chosen  among  the  elect  of  Mammon,  and 


I'.diih  left  to  draii  out  "  life 


the  lowly?"     She   sat 


here  while  the  moments  wore  on,  the  letter  crushed  in  her 
Lip,  her  li|)s  set  in  a  line  of  dull  pain.  The  glory  of  the 
world,  the  desh-pots  of  I''gypt,  the  purple  and  fine  linen  of 
life,  her  heart  craved  with  an  exceeding  great  longing,  and 
all  life  had  given  her  was  hideous  poverty,  going  errands  in 
shabby  hats,  and  her  stepmother's  rubbers,  through  rain  and 
mud,  and  being  waited  upon  by  such  men  as  Sam  Doolittle. 


no 


MISS  DARRELL. 


She  looked  with  eyes  full  of  passionate  despair  at  tlie 
daik,  stormy  sea. 

"  If  I  only  iiad  courage,"  she  said,  between  her  set  teeth, 
"  to  jump  in  there  and  make  an  end  of  it.  I  will  some  day 
— or  I'll  run  away.  I  don't  inucli  care  what  becomes  of 
me.     Nothing  can  be  worse  than  tliis  sort  of  life — nothing." 

She  looked  dangerous  as  she  thouglit  it  —dangerous  to 
herself  and  others,  and  ready  for  any  desperate  i\<^k:i\.  So 
absorbed  was  she  in  her  own  gloon)y  thoughts,  as  she  sat 
there,  that  she  never  heard  a  footstep  descending  the  rocky 
path  behind  her.  Suddenly  two  gloved  hands  were  clasi)ed 
over  Tier  eyes,  and  a  mellow,  masculine  voice,  sang  a  verse 
of  an  appropriate  song  : 

"  '  Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  oh  sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tonLjue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. ' 

"  T  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter  the  thoughts  that 
arise  in  me,  concerning  young  ladies  who  sit  i)erched  on  rocks 
in  the  rain.  Is  it  your  favorite  amusement,  may  I  ask, 
Miss  Darrell,  to  sit  here  and  be  rained  on  ?  And  are  there 
no  lunatic  asylums  in  Sandypoint,  that  they  allow  such  people 
as  you  to  go  at  large  ?  " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  confronted  him,  her  breath 
caught,  her  eyes  dilating. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  in  a  breathless  sort  of  way,  "it  is 
Charley  !  " 

She  held  out  both  her  hands,  the  whole  expression  of  her 
face  changing — her  eyes  like  stars. 

"  Charley,  Miss  Darrell,  and  if  it  had  been  the  Man  in 
tlie  AfocMi  you  could  hardly  look  more  thunderstruck.  And 
now,  if  I  may  venture  to  propoimd  so  delicate  a  conun- 
drum, how  long  is  it  since  you  lost  your  senses  ?  Or  had 
you  ever  any  to  lose,  that  you  sit  here  in  the  present  beastly 
state  of  the  weather,  to  get  comfortably  drenched  to  the 
skin?" 

He  was  holding  both  her  hands,  and  looking  at  her  as  he 
spoke — a  young  man  of  some  five-and  twenty,  wilii  grey 
eyes  and  chestnut  hair,  well-looking  and  well-dressed,  and 
with  that  indescribable  air  of  ease  and  fashion  which  belongs 
to  the  "golden  youth"  of  New  York. 


MISS  DAK R ELL. 


Ill 


"  You  don't  say  you're  glad  to  see  me,  Ditliy,  and  you  do 
look  uncommonly  blank.  \\\\\  you  end  my  agonizing  sus- 
))ense  on  this  point,  AHss  Daiicll,  by  saying  it  now,  and  giv- 
ing me  a  sociable  kiss  ?" 

He  made  as  tliougli  he  would  take  it,  but  Edith  drew  back, 
laughing  and  blushing  a  little. 

"You  know  what  Gietchen  says  to  Faust :  *  Love  me  as 
much  as  you  like,  but  no  kissing,  that  is  vulgar.'  I  agree 
with.  Gretchen — it  is  vulgar.  Oh,  Mr.  Stuart,  what  a  sur- 
jnisc  this  is!  I  have  just  been  reading  a  letter  from  your 
sister,  and  she  doesn't  say  a  word  of  your  coming." 

"  For  the  excellent  reason  that  she  knew  nothing  about  it 


when  that  letter  was  written.     Let  me  look  at 


you, 


Edie. 


AViiat  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself  since  I  left,  that  you 
should  fall  away  to  a  shadow  in  this  manner  ?  But  perhaps 
your  failing  is  the  natural  and  inevitable  result  of  my  leav- 

"  No  doubt.  Life  would  naturally  be  insupportable  with- 
out you.  Whatever  /may  have  iost,  Nfr.  Stuart,  it  is  quite 
evident  you  have  not  lost  the  most  striking  trait  in  your 
character — your  self-conceit." 

"  No,"  the  young  man  answered  ;  "  my  virtues  are  as  last- 
ing as  they  are  numerous.  May  1  ask,  how  it  is  that  I  have 
suddenly  become  '  Mr.  Stuart,'  when  it  has  been  'Charley' 
and  '  dear  Cousin  Charley '  for  the  i)ast  two  years  ?  " 

Miss  Darrell  laughed  a  little  and  blushed  a  little  again, 
showing  verv  white  teeth  and  love'y  color. 

"  I  have  ij._-n  reading  Trixy's  letter,  and  it  fills  me  with 
an  awfid  rcsjiect  for  you  and  all  the  Stuart  family.  How 
could  I  presume  to  address  as  plain  Ciiarley  any  one  so  for- 
tunate as  the  bosom  friend  of  a  baronet  ?" 

"Ail!"  Mr.  Stuart  remarked,  i)lacidly  ;  "Trixy's  been 
giving  you  a  cjuarter  quire  cossed  sheets  of  that,  has  she  ? 
You  really  wade  through  that  poor  child's  interminable 
epistles,  do  you  ?  I  hardly  know  which  to  admire  most,  the 
genius  that  can  write  twenty  ])ages  of — nothing — or  the 
patience  which  reads  it,  word  for  word.  This  one  is  Sir  Vic- 
tor from  date  to  signature,  I'll  swear.  Well,  yes.  Miss  Dar- 
rell, I  know  the  baronet,  and  he's  a  very  heavy  swell  and  a 
blue  diamond  of  the  fust  water.  Talk  of  pedigree,  there's  a 
pedigree,  if  you  like.     A  Catheron,  of  Cathdon,  was  hand 


I  12 


Af/SS  DARRELL. 


and  glove  with  Alfred  the  Great.  He's  a  very  lucky  young 
fellow,  and  why  the  gods  should  have  singled  ////;/  out  as  the 
recipient  of  tlieir  favors,  and  left  me  in  the  cold,  is  a 
problem  I  can't  solve.  He's  a  baronet,  he  has  more  thou- 
s:inds  a  year,  and  more  houses  in  more  counties  tiian  you, 
with  your  limited  knowledge  of  arithmetic,  could  count. 
He  has  a  fair  complexion,  a  melancholy  contrast  on  that 
point  to  you,  my  poor  Edith  ;  he  has  incipient,  pale,  yellow 
w'uskers,  he  has  an  English  accent,  and  lie  goes  through  life 
mostly  in  a  suit  of  Oxford  mixture  and  a  round  felt  hat. 
He's  a  very  fine  fellow,  and  I  approve  of  him.  Need  I  say 
more  ?  " 

"  More  would  be  superfluous.  If  yon  approve  of  him, 
my  lord,  all  is  said  in  that.     And  Lady  Helena?" 

"  Lady  Helena  is  a  ponderous  and  venerable  matron,  in 
black  silks,  Chantilly  lace,  and  mara'jout  feathers,  who 
would  weigh  down  sixteen  of  you  and  me,  and  who  wor- 
ships the  ground  her  nephew  walks  on.  She  is  the  daughter 
of  a  marquis  and  a  i^eeress  in  her  own  right.  Think  of  that, 
you  poor,  little,  half-civilized  Yankee  girl,  and  blush  to  re- 
member you  never  had  an  ancestor.  But  why  do  I  waste 
my  breath  and  time  in  these  details,  when  Trix  lias  narrated 
them  already  by  the  cubic  foot.  IMiss  Darrell,  you  may  be 
a  mermaid  or  a  keli)ie— that  sort  of  j-oung  person  does 
exist,  I  believe,  in  aj^crpetual  shower  bath,  but  1  regret  to  in- 
form you  /am  mortal — very  mortal — subject  to  melancholy 
colds  in  the  head,  and  depressing  attacks  of  influenza.  At 
the  present  moment,  my  patent  leather  boots  are  leaking  at 
every  pore,  the  garments  I  wear  beneath  this  gray  overcoat 
are  saturated,  and  little  rills  of  rain  water  are  trickling  down 
the  small  of  my  back.  You  nursed  me  through  one  ])ro- 
longed  siege  of  fever  and  freezing — unless  you  are  especially 
desirous  of  nursing  me  through  another,  perhaps  we  had  bet- 
ter get  out  of  tliis.  I  merely  throw  out  the  suggestion — it's 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  me." 

Edith  laughed  and  turned  to  go. 

"  As  it  is  by  no  means  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me,  I 
move  an  adjournment  to  the  house.  No,  thank  you,  I  don't 
want  your  arm.  This  isn't  the  fashionable  side  of  P.roadway, 
at  four  o'clock  of  a  summer  afternoon.  1  talk  of  it,  as  though 
I  had  been  there — I  who  never  was  farther  than  Boston  in 


M/SS  DARRELL. 


113 


my  life,  and  who,  judging  from  present  appearances,  never 
will." 

*' Then,"  said  Mr.  Stuart,  "  it's  very  rash  and  premature 
to  jud_:,'e  by  jjiesent  ai)pearances,  my  errand  here  being  to — 
Miss  Darrell,  doesn't  it  strike  you  to  inquire  what  my  errand 
liere  may  be  ?" 

"  Shooting,"  Miss  Darrell  said,  i:)romi)tly. 

"Shooting  in  March.     Good  Heavens,  no  I" 

"  Fishing  then." 

"  Fishing  is  a  delightful  recreation  in  a  rii)i)llng  brook,  on 
a  hot  August  day,  but  in  this  month  and  in  this  weather ! 
For  a  Massachusetts  young  lady,  Dithy,  1  must  say  your 
guessing  education  has  been  shamefully  neglected.  No,  I 
have  come  for  something  better  than  either  fishing  or  shoot- 
ing— I  have  come  for  jw/." 

"  Chadey  ! " 

"  I've  got  her  note  somewhere,"  said  Charley,  feeling  in 
his  pockets  as  they  walked  along,  "  if  it  hasn't  melted  away 
in  the  rain.  No,  here  it  is.  Did  Trix,  by  any  chance,  al- 
lude to  a  projected  tour  of  the  governor's  and  the  maternal's 
to  Furope  ?  " 

"Yes."  Her  eyes  were  fixed  eagerly  on  his  face,  her  lips 
apart,  and  breathless.     "  Oh,  Charley  !  w'hat  do  you  mean  ?  " 

In  the  intensity  of  her  emotions  she  forgets  to  be  formal, 
and  becomes  natural  and  cousinly  once  more. 

"Ah  !  I  am  Charley  again.  Here  is  the  note.  As  it  is 
your  healthful  and  refreshing  custom  to  read  your  letters  in 
the  rain,  I  need  hardly  urge  you  to  open  and  peruse  this 
one." 

Hardly !  She  tore  it  open,  and  ran  over  it  with  kindling 
cheeks  and  fast  throbbing  heart. 

"  My  Dkar  EniTM  :  Mr.  Stuart  and  myself,  Charles 
and  IJeatrix,  propose  visiting  Europe  in  May.  From  my 
son  I  learn  that  you  are  proficient  in  the  French  and  Ger- 
man languages,  and  would  be  invaluable  to  us  on  tlie  jour- 
ney, besides  the  jileasurc  your  society  will  afford  us  all.  If 
you  think  six  hundred  dollars  per  annum  sulVicient  recom- 
pense for  your  services  and  all  your  expenses  paid,  we  shall 
be  glad  to  have  you  return  (under  proper  female  charge) 
with  Charley.     1  trust  this  will  prove  acceptable  to  you,  and 


114 


J//SS  DARRELL. 


thai  your  papa  will  allow  you  to  come.  The  advantages  of 
foreign  travel  will  be  of  inestimable  benefit  to  a  young  lady 
so  thoroughly  educated  and  talented  as  yourself,  lieatrix 
bids  me  add  she  will  never  forgive  you  if  you  do  not  come. 

'•With  kindest  regards  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darrell,  I  remain, 
my  dear  EaUiIi,  Very  sincerely  yours, 

Chaklo'ite  Stuart." 


She  had  come  to  a  stand  still  in  the  middle  of  the  muddy 
road,  while  in  a  rapture  she  devoured  this.  Now  she  looked 
uj),  her  face  transfigured — absolutely  glorified.  Go  to  Eu- 
rope !  Frar- e,  Italy,  Germany,  Switzerland !  live  in 
that  radiant  upper  world  of  her  dreams  !  She  turned  to 
Charley,  and  to  the  unutterable  surprise  of  that  young  gen- 
tleuian,  flung  her  arms  around  him,  and  gave  him  a  frantic 
hu:^. 

"  Charley  !  Charley  !     Oh,  Charley  I  "  was  all  she  could 

Mr.  Stuart  returned  the  impulsive  embrace,  with  a  promp- 
titude and  warmth  that  did  him  credit. 

"  I  never  knew  a  letter  of  my  mother's  to  have  such  a 
pleasant  effect  before.  How  delightful  it  must  !)e  to  be 
a  postman.     It  is  yes,  then,  Edith  ?  " 

"Oil,  Charley!  as  if  it  could  be  anything  else?  I  owe 
this  to  you — I  know  I  do.     How  shall  I  ever  thank  you?" 

"  By  a  re|>etition  of  your  little  jierformance.  You  won't  ? 
Well,  as  your  stepmother  is  looking  at  us  out  of  the  window, 
wiih  a  face  of  verjuice,  perha[)s  it  is  just  as  well.  You're 
sure  the  dear  old  dad  won't  say  no?" 

"  Poor  papa ' "  her  radiant  face  clouded  a  little,  "  he  will 
miss  me,  but  no — he  couldn't  refuse  me  anything  if  he  tried 
— least  of  all  this.  Charley,  I  do  thank  you — dear,  best 
cousin  that  ever  was — with  all  my  heart !  " 

She  held  out  both  hands,  her  heart  full,  and  brimming 
over  in  her  b!.ick  eyes.  For  once  in  his  life  Charley  Stuart 
forgot  to  be  flippant  and  cynical.  He  held  the  hands  genllj', 
and  he  looked  half-laughingly,  half-compassionately  into  the 
flubhed,  earnest  face. 

"You  poor  chilfl ! "  he  said;  "and  yen  think  the  world 
outside  this  sea,  and  these  sandhills,  is  all  sunshine  and  colcur 
dc  rose.     Well,  think  so — it's  a  harmless  delusion,  and  one 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE  SNOW. 


115 


that  won't  last.  And  whatever  betides,"  he  said  this  ear- 
nestly, "  wliatever  this  new  life  brings,  you'll  never  blame 
mc,  Kdith,  for  having  taken  you  away  from  the  old  one?" 

"  Never  1  "  she  answered.  And  she  kept  her  word.  In 
all  tlie  sadness — the  shame,  the  pain  of  the  after-time,  she 
would  never  have  gone  back  if  she  could — she  never  blamed 
him. 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  They  were  at  the  door  of  the 
ugly  bleak  house  which  Edith  Darrell  for  eighteen  years  had 
called  home,  but  which  she  was  never  to  call  home  more. 
You  would  hardly  have  known  her — so  bright,  so  beautiful 
in  a  moment  had  Hope  made  her — a  smile  on  her  lips,  her 
eyes  like  dark  diamonds.  For  Charley,  he  watched  her,  as 
ho  might  some  interesting  natural  curiosity. 

"  When  am  I  to  be  ready  ?  "  she  asked  him,  softly,  at  the 
door, 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  he  answered. 

Then  she  opened  it  and  went  in. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A  NIGHT  IN   THE   SNOW. 


NE  snowy  February  night,  just  two  years  before, 
Edith  Darrel  and  Charles  Stuart  had  met  for  the 
first  time — met  in  a  very  odd  and  romantic  way. 
Before  relating  that  i)eculiar  first  meeting,  let  me 
premise  that  Edith  Darreil.'s  mother  had  been  born  a  Miss 
Eleanor  Stuart,  the  daughter  of  a  rich  New  York  merchant, 
wh.o  had  fallen  in  love  at  an  early  period  of  her  career  with 
her  father's  handsome  book-keeper,  Frederic  Darrell,  had 
eloped  with  him,  and  been  cast  off  by  her  whole  family  from 
thenceforth,  forever.  Ten  years'  hard  battling  with  ])overty 
and  ill-health  had  followed,  and  then  one  day  she  kissed  her 
husband  and  little  daughter  for  the  last  time,  and  drifted 
wearily  out  of  the  strife.  Of  course  Mr.  Darrell,  a  year  or 
two  after,  married  again  for  the  sake  of  having  some  one  to 
look  after  his  house  and  little  Edith  as  much  as  anything  else. 


ii6 


A   XIGIIT  IN  THE  SNO^V. 


Rfrs.  Darroll  No.  2  was  in  every  rcsi^cct  the  exact  contrast  of 
Mrs.  Darrell  No,  i.  She  was  a  brisk  Htlle  woman,  with 
snapping  bhick  eyes,  a  sharp  nose,  a  complexion  tif  sat^Von, 
anil  a  ton^^ue  like  a  carving-knife.  I'"rederic  Darrell  was  by 
nature  a  feeble,  helpless  sort  of  man,  but  she  galvani^ed  even 
him  into  a  spasmoilic  sort  of  life.  He  was  master  of  three 
living  languages  and  two  dead  ones. 

•'  If  you  can't  support  your  fiimily  by  your  hands,  Mr. 
Darrell,"  snapped  his  wife,  "  support  them  by  your  head. 
There  are  plenty  young  men  in  the  world  ready  to  learn 
French  and  German,  Greek  and  I^atin,  if  they  can  learn  them 
at  a  reasonable  rate.  Advertise  for  these  young  men,  and 
I'll  board  them  when  they  come." 

He  obeyed,  the  idea  |)roved  a  good  one,  the  young  men 
came,  Mrs.  Darrell  boarded  and  lodged  them,  Mr.  Darrell 
coached  them  in  classics  and  languages.  Edith  shot  up  like 
a  hop-vine.  Five  more  little  Darrells  were  added  in  the 
fulness  of  time,  and  the  old  problem,  that  not  all  the  mathe- 
matics he  knew  could  ever  solve,  how  to  make  both  ends 
meet,  seemed  as  knotty  as  ever.  For  his  daughter  he  felt  it 
most  of  all.  The  five  great  noisy  boys  who  called  Mrs. 
Darrell  "  ma,"  he  looked  at  through  his  sjjectacles  in  fear  and 
trembling.  His  handsome  daughter  he  loved  with  his  whole 
heart.  Her  dead  mother's  relatives  were  among  the  pluto- 
cracy of  New  York,  but  even  the  memory  of  the  dead 
Eleanor  seemed  to  have  faded  utterly  out  of  their  minds. 

One  raw  February  afternoon  two  years  before  this  March 
morning,  Edith  Darrell  set  out  to  walk  from  Millfield,  a  large 
manufacturing  town,  five  miles  from  Sandypoint,  home.  She 
had  been  driven  over  in  the  morning  by  a  neighbor,  to  buy 
a  new  dress  ;  she  had  dined  at  noon  with  an  acquaintance, 
and  as  the  Millfield  clocks  struck  five,  set  out  to  walk  home. 
She  was  a  capital  walker ;  she  knew  the  road  well ;  she  had 
the  garnet  merino  clasped  close  in  her  arms,  a  talisman 
against  cold  or  weariness,  and  thinking  how  well  she  would 
look  in  it  next  Thursday  at  the  i>arty,  she  tripped  blithely 
along.  A  keen  wind  blew,  a  dark  drit'ting  sky  hung  low  over 
the  black  frozen  earth,  and  before  Miss  Darrell  had  finished 
the  first  mile  of  her  i)ilgrimage,  the  great  feathery  snow  Hakes 
began  whirling  down.  She  looked  up  in  dismay — snow  ! 
She  had  not  counted  on  that.     Her  way  lay  over  hills  and 


A   NIGHT  IN   THE  SNOW. 


117 


clown  valleys,  the  pith  was  excellent,  hard  and  hcatcn,  but 
il"  it  snowed — and  night  was  coining  on  fast.  Wliat  should 
.s!ic  do?  Prudence  whi:;pered,  ''  turn  hack  ;"  youtli's  ini|i:i- 
liencc  and  coniklence  in  itself  cried  out,  "go  on,"  Juliili 
went  on. 

It  was  as  lonely  a  five-niile  walk  as  you  would  c:^^  to  take 
in  an  August  noontide.  'I'hink  what  it  must  luu'e  been  this 
stormy  February  evening.  She  was  not  entirely  alone.  "  Don 
Cesar,"  the  house  dog.  a  big  Englisli  mastiff,  trotted  by  Jier 
side.  At  long  intervals,  down  by -pallis  and  across  lields, 
there  were  some  half  dozen  habitations,  between  Milllieid 
and  Sandypoint — that  was  all.  Faster,  faster  came  the 
wliite  whirling  flakes ;  an  out-and-out  February  snowstorm 
had  set  in. 

Again  — should  she  turn  back  ?  She  paused  half  a  minute 
to  debate  the  question.  If  she  did  there  would  be  a  sleep- 
less night  of  terror  for  her  nervous  father  at  home.  And 
slie  w/i,"///  be  able  to  keep  the  path  with  the  "Don's" 
aid.  Personal  fear  she  felt  none  ;  she  was  a  thoroughly  brave 
little  woman,  and  there  was  a  spice  of  adventure  in  braving 
the  storm  and  going  on.  She  shook  back  her  clustering 
curls,  tied  her  hood  a  little  tighter,  wrapped  her  cloak  more 
closely  around  her,  whistled  cheerily  to  Don  Caesar,  and 
went  on. 

"  In  the  bright  lexicon  of  youth  there  is  no  such  word  as 
'Fail',"  she  said  gayly,  patting  the  Don's  shaggy  head. 
^^  En  a-'afit,  Don  Cicsar,  man  brave!"  The  Don  under- 
stood French  ;  he  licked  his  mistress's  hand  and  trotted  con- 
tentedly before. 

"  As  if  1  could  lose  the  path  with  the  Don,"  she  thought ; 
"  what  a  goose  1  am.  I  shall  make  Mamma  Darrell  cut  out 
my  garnet  merino,  and  begin  it  before  1  go  to  bed  to-night." 

She  walked  bravely  and  brightly  on,  .vhistling  and  talk- 
ing to  Don  C;T3sar  at  intervals.  Another  mile  was  got  over, 
and  the  night  had  shut  down,  white  with  whirling  drifts.  It 
was  all  she  could  do  now,  to  make  her  way  against  the  storm, 
and  it  grew  worse  every  instant.  Three  miles  of  the  five  lay 
yet  before  her.  Mer  heart  began  to  fail  her  a  little  ;  the 
l^ath  was  lost  in  the  snow,  and  even  the  Don  began  to  be  at 
fault.  Tlie  drifting  wilderness  nearly  blinded  her,  the  deep 
snow  was  imutterably  fatiguing.     There  was  but  one  thing 


ii8 


A   NIGHT  IN    THE   SNOIV. 


ill  her  favor — the  ni;^lit,  for  Fi'bniary,  was  niiUl.  She  was 
all  ill  a  ylow  of  warmth,  but  what  if  she  should  got  lost  and 
llotiiidcr  about  here  iiniil  iuorniiig  ?  And  what  would  i)ai)a 
think  of  her  absence  ? 

She  stopped  short  again.  If  she  could  see  a  light  she 
would  make  for  it,  she  thought,  and  take  refuge  from  the 
night  and  storm.  Hut  through  the  white  whirl  no  light  was 
to  be  seen.     Right  or  wrong,  nothing  remained  but  to  go  on. 

Hark  I  what  was  that  ?  She  stopjjed  once  more — the 
Don  pricked  up  his  sagacions  cars.  A  cry  unmistakably — 
a  cry  of  distress. 

Again  it  came,  to  the  left,  faint  and  far  off.  Yes— no 
doubt  about  it,  a  cry  for  helj). 

She  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  Strangers,  who  had  tried 
this  hillpath  before  now,  had  been  found  stark  fro/en  next 
day. 

"  Find  him,  Don — find  him,  good  fellow  !  "  she  said  and 
turned  at  once  in  the  direction  of  the  call. 

•'  Coming  ! "  she  shouted,  aloud.  "  Where  are  you  ? 
Call  again." 

"  Here,"  came  faintly  over  the  snow. 

She  shouted  back  a  cheery  answer. 
faint  reply — then  all  was  still. 

Suddenly  the  Don  stopped.  Imi)0ssible  to  tell  where  they 
were,  but  there,  prostrate  in  a  feathery  drift,  lay  the  dark 
figure  of  a  man.  The  girl  bent  down  in  the  darkness,  and 
touched  the  cold  face  with  her  hand. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "How  do  you  come 
to  be  lying  here  ?  " 

There  was  just  life  enough  left  within  him,  to  enable  him  to 
answer  faintly. 

"  I  was  on  my  way  to  Sandypoint — the  pight  and  storm 
overtook  me.  I  missed  the  jialh  and  my  footing  ;  I  slijjpcd, 
and  have  broken  my  leg,  I'm  afraid.  I  heard  you  whistling 
to  your  dog  and  tried  to  call.  I  didn't  dream  it  was  a 
woman,  and  I  am  sorry  I  have  brought  you  out  of  your  way. 
Still,  as  you  are  here,  if  you  will  tell  them  at  the  nearest 
house,  and — "  his  voice  died  entirely  away,  in  the  sleepy 
cadence  of  a  freezing  man. 

The  nearest  house — wlierc  was  the  nearest  house?  Why, 
this  poor  fellow  would  freeze  to  death  in  half  an  hour  if  left 


"  Here,  to  the  left." 
Once  more  came  a 


A  Miarrr  in  tife  snow. 


119 


to  himself.  ImpossiliU;  to  leave  him.  What  should  she  do? 
.She  ihoiii^ht  for  a  monient.  Quick  and  bright  of  invciuioi), 
she  made  ii|)  her  mind  what  to  do,  Siie  h.id  in  iier  pocket 
a  lliile  |)assl)ook  and  pencil.  In  the  darkness  she  tore  out 
a  leaf — in  the  darkness  she  wrote,  "  I'oliow  Don.  Come  at 
once."  She  pinned  the  note  in  her  hantlkerchief — tied  the 
handkerchief  securely  rf)itnd  the  do^f's  neck,  put  her  arms 
a!)out  him,  and  gave  his  black  head  a  hug. 

"do  home,  Don,  go  home,"  she  said,  "and  fetch  papa 
here. 

The  largo,  half-human  eyes  looked  up  at  her.  She  pushed 
him  away  with  both  hands,  and  with  a  low  growl  of  intctli- 
gi'uce  he  set  off.  And  in  that  sea  of  snow,  lost  in  the  niglit, 
lulith  Darrell  was  alone  witii  a  freezing  man. 

In  her  satchvd,  among  her  other  purchases,  she  had  sevcMal 
cents'  worth  of  1. matches  for  household  consumption.  With  a 
girl's  curiosity,  even  in  that  hour,  to  see  what  the  man  was 
like,  she  struck  a  match  and  looked  at  him.  It  llared  througli 
the  white  darkness  a  second  or  two,  then  went  out.  Tiiit 
second  showed  her  a  face  as  white  as  the  snow  it.self,  tlie 
eyes  closed,  the  lips  set  in  silent  pain.  She  saw  a  shaggy 
great  coat,  and  fur  cap,  and — a  gentleman,  even  in  that 
briefest  of  brief  glances. 

"You  mustn't  go  to  sleep,"  she  said,  giving  him  a  shake  ; 
"do  you  hear  me,  sir  ?     You  mustn't  go  to  sleep." 

"Yes — mustn't  1?"  very  drowsily. 

"  You'll  freeze  to  death  if  you  do."  A  second  shake.  "  Oh, 
do  rouse  up  like  a  good  fellow,  and  try  to  keep  awake.  I've 
sent  my  dog  for  help,  and  I  mean  to  stay  with  jou  until  it 
comes.     Doe   your  leg  pain  you  much  ?" 

"Not  now.     It  did,  but  I — feel — sleepy,  and — " 

"  I  tell  you,  you  mushit ! "  She  shook  him  so  indignantly 
this  time  that  he  did  rouse  up.  "  Do  you  want  to  freeze  to 
death  ?     I  tell  you,  sir,  you  must  wake  u|)  and  talk  to  ///<'." 

"  Talk  to  you  ?  I  beg  your  jiardon — it's  awfully  good  of  you 
to  stay  with  me,  but  I  can't  allow  it.     You'll  freeze  yourself." 

"  No,  I  won't.  /';//  all  right.  It  isn't  freezing  hard  to- 
night, and  if  you  hadn't  broken  your  leg,  you  wouldn't  freeze 
either,  1  wish  I  coidd  do  something  for  you.  Let  me  rub 
your  hands — it  may  helj)  to  keep  yon  awake.  And  see,  I'll 
wrap  this  round  your  feet  to  keep  them  out  of  the  snow." 


I20 


A   NIGHT  IN   THE  ^NOW. 


And  then — who  says  that  heroic  self-sacrifice  has  gone 
out  of  fashion  ? — slic  unfurled  the  garnet  merino  and  twisted 
i;s  glowing  folds  around  the  boots  of  the  fallen  man. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  you  know,"  he  could  but 
just  repeat.  "If  1  am  saved  I  shall  owe  my  life  to  you. 
I  think  by  your  voice  you  arc  a  young  lady.  Tell  me  your 
name  ? " 

"  Edith." 

"A  pretty  name,  and  a  sweet  voice.  Supjwse  you  rub 
my  other  hand  ?  How  delightfully  warm  yours  are  !  I  begin 
to  feel  better  already.  If  we  don't  freeze  to  death,  I 
shouldn't  much  mind  how  long  this  sort  of  thing  goes  on. 
If  we  do,  they'll  find  us,  like  the  babes  in  the  wood,  under 
the  snow-drifts  to-morrow." 

Miss  Darrell  listened  to  all  this,  uttered  in  the  sleepiest, 
gentlest  of  tones,  her  brown  eyes  open  wide.  What  man- 
ner of  young  man  was  this  who  paid  compliments  while 
freezing  with  a  broken  leg?  It  was  quite  a  new  experience 
to  her  and  amused  her.  It  was  an  adventure,  and  excited 
all  the  romance  dormant  in  her  nature. 

"You're  a  stranger  hereabouts  ?"  she  suggested. 

"  Yi.'s,  a  stranger,  to  my  cost,  and  a  very  foolhardy  one, 
or  I  should  never  have  attempted  to  find  Sandypoint  in  this 
confounded  storm.  Edith — you'll  excuse  my  calling  you  so, 
my  name  is  Charley — wouldn't  it  have  been  better  if  you 
had  left  me  here  and  gone  for  some  one.  I'm  dreadfully 
afraid  you'll  get  your  death." 

His  solicitude  for  her,  in  his  own  danger  and  pain,  quite 
touclied  Miss  Edith.  She  bent  over  him  with  maternal 
tenderness. 

"  There  is  no  fear  for  me.  I  feel  perfectly  warm  as  I  told 
you,  and  can  easily  keep  myself  so.  And  if  you  think  I 
could  leave  you,  or  any  one  else  with  a  broken  leg,  to  die, 
you  mistake  me  greatly,  that  is  all.  I  will  stay  with  you  if  it 
be  till  morning." 

He  gave  one  of  her  hands  a  feelily  grateful  squeeze.  It 
was  a  last  effort.  His  numbed  and  broken  limb  gave  a  hor- 
rible twinge,  there  was  a  faint  gasp,  and  then  this  young  man 
fainted  (juietly  away. 

She  bent  above  him  in  despair.  A  great  fear  filled  her — 
was  he    dead,  this  stranger    in   whom  she  was    interested 


A  NIGHT  IM  THE  SNOW. 


121 


gone 
n'isted 

I  but 
yon. 
your 


)CglM 


already  ?  She  lifted  his  head  on  her  lap,  she  chafed  his  face 
and  hands  in  an  agony  of  pity  and  terror. 

"  CIkuIcv  !  "  she  called,  with  something  like  a  sob  ;  "O 
Charley,  vion't  die  !     AVake  up — speak  to  me." 

liiit  cold  and  white  as  the  snow  itself,  "Charley"  lay, 
dumb  and  unresiioiisive. 

And  so  an  hour  wore  on. 

What  an  hour  it  was — more  like  an  eternity.  In  all  her 
after-life — its  i^ride  and  its  glory,  its  downfall  and  disgrace, 
tluvt  night  remained  vividly  in  her  memory. 

She  woke  many  and  many  a  night,  starting  up  in  her 
warm  bed,  from  some  startling  dream,  that  she  was  back, 
lost  in  the  snow,  with  Charley  lying  lifeless  in  her  lap. 

Pnit  help  was  at  hand.  It  was  close  upon  nine  o'clock, 
when,  through  the  deathly  white  silence,  the  sound  of  many 
voices  came.  When  over  the  cold  glitter  of  the  winter 
night,  the  red  light  of  lanterns  llared,  Don  Caesar  came 
l)Uuiging  headlong  through  the  drifts  to  his  little  mistress' 
side,  with  loud  and  joyful  barking,  licking  her  face,  her 
hands,  her  feet.     Thev  were  saved. 

She  sank  back  sick  and  dizzy  in  her  father's  clasp.  For 
a  moment  the  earth  rocked,  and  the  sky  went  round — then 
she  sprang  u|),  herself  again.  VIit  fadiei  wa;-  there,  and  the 
three  young  men,  boarders.  They  lifted  the  rigid  form  of 
the  stranger,  and  carried  it  between  them  somehow,  to  Mr. 
IXurell's  house. 

His  feet  were  slightly  frost-bitten,  his  leg  not  broken  after 
all,  only  sprained  and  swollen,  and  to  Edith's  relief  he  was 
pronounced  in  a  fainting-fit,  not  dead. 

"  Don't  look  so  wh.te  and  scared,  child,"  her  step-mother 
said  pettishly  to  her  step-daughter  ;  "  he  won't  die,  and  a 
pretty  burthen  he'll  be  on  my  hands  for  the  next  three 
weeks.  Co  to  bed — do — and  don't  let  us  have  jt7«  laid  up 
as  well.     One's  enough  at  a  time." 

"Yes,  Didiy,  darling,  go,"  said  her  fiither,  kissing  her 
tenderly.  "  You're  a  brave  little  woman,  and  you've  saved 
his  life.  I  have  always  been  proud  of  you,  but  never  so 
proud  as  to-night." 

It  certainly  vhis  a  couple  of  weeks.  It  was  five  blesF^rd 
weeks  before  "  Mr.  Charley,"  as  they  learned  to  call  him, 


122 


A   aWIGIIT  m   THE    SNOW. 


could  get  about,  even  on  crutches.  For  fever  and  some- 
times delirium  set  in,  and  Charley  raved  and  tossed,  and 
shouted,  and  talked,  and  drove  Mrs,  Frederic  Darrell  nearly 
frantic  with  his  capers.  The  duty  of  nursing  fell  a  good 
deal  on  Edith.  She  seemed  to  take  to  it  quite  naturally. 
In  his  "worst  spells"  the  soundof  iier  soft  voice,  the  touch 
of  her  cool  hand,  could  soothe  hiui  as  nothing  else  could. 
Sonielimes  he  sung,  as  boisterously  as  his  enfeebled  state 
would  allow  :  "  We  won't  go  home  till  morning  !  "  Some- 
times he  shouted  for  his  mother;  very  often  for  "Trixy." 

WHio  was  Trixy,  Edith  wondered  with  a  sort  of  inward 
twinge,  not  to  be  accounted  for  ;  his  sister  or — 

He  was  very  handsome  in  those  days — his  great  gray  eyes 
brilliant  with  fever,  his  checks  Hushed,  his  chestnut  hair 
falling  damp  and  heavy  off  his  brow.  What  an  ad- 
venture it  was,  altogether,  Edith  used  to  think,  like  some- 
thing out  of  a  book.  Who  was  he,  she  wondered.  A  gen- 
tleman "  by  courtesy  and  the  grace  of  God,"  no  mistaking 
that.  His  clothes,  his  linen,  were  all  superiine.  KJw  one 
finger  he  wore  a  diamond  that  made  all  beholders  wink,  and 
in  his  shirt  bo:som  still  another.  His  wallet  was  stuffed  with 
greenbacks,  his  watch  and  chain,  Mr.  Darreli  ahirmcd 
were  worth  a  thousand  dollars — a  sprig  of  gentility,  who- 
ever he  might  be,  this  wounded  hero.  They  found  no 
papers,  no  letters,  no  card-case.  His  linen  was  marked 
"  C.  S."  twisted  in  a  monogram.  They  must  wait  until  he 
was  able  himself  to  tell  them  the  rest. 

The  soft  sunshine  of  April  v/as  filling  his  room,  and  bask- 
ing in  its  rays  in  the  parlor  or  rocking-chaii  sat  "  ^fr.  Char- 
ley," pale  and  wasted  to  a  most  interesting  degree.  He  was 
sitting,  looking  at  Miss  Edith,  di!;;ging  industriously  in  her 
flower-garden,  with  one  of  the  boarders  for  under-gardener, 
and  listening  to  .\rr.  Darrell.  proposing  he  should  tell  them 
his  name,  in  order  that  they  might  write  to  his  friends.  The 
young  man  turned  his  large  languid  eyes  from  the  daughter 
without,  to  the  father  within. 

"  My  friends  ?     Oh  !  to  be  sure.     13ut  it  isn't  necessary, 
is  it?  It's  very  thoughtfulof  you, and  all  that,  but  my  friends" 
won't    worry    themselves    into    an    early   grave    about    my 
absence  and  silence.      They're  vised  to  both.      Next  week, 
or  week  after,  I'll  drop  them  a  line  myself.     I  know  I  must 


A   NIGHT  IN   711 E  SNOW. 


123 


;oine- 

and 

icarly 

good 


be  an  awful  nuisance  to  Mrs.  Darrell,  but  if  I  might  trespass 
on  your  great  kindness  and  remain  here  until — " 

"  My  (kar  young  fiiend,"  n-sponded  Mr.  Darrell,  warmly, 
"you  shall  most  certainly  rem.  ';i  here.  For  Mrs.  Darrell, 
you're  no  trouble  to  her — it's  Dithy,  ii!  )ss  her,  who  does  all 
the  nursing." 

The  gray  dreamy  eyes  turned  irom  Mr.  Darrell  again,  to 
that  busy  figure  in  the  garden.  With  her  cheeks  Hushed, 
her  brown  eyes  shining,  her  rosy  lips  apart,  and  laugliing,  as 
she  wrangled  with  that  ])articular  boarder  on  tlie  subject  of 
lloriculture,  she  looked  a  most  dangerous  nurse  for  any 
young  mivn  of  tlu'ee-and  twenty. 

"  1  owe  Miss  Darrell  and  you  all,  more  than  I  can  ever 
repay,"  he  said,  quietly  ;  "///«/ is  understood.  I  have  never 
tried  to  thank  her,  or  you  e'lher — words  are  so  inadequate 
in  these  cases.     Believe  me  though,  I  am  not  ungrateful." 

"Say  no  more,"  Mr.  Darrell  cut  in  hastily  ;  "only  tell  us 
how  we  are  to  address  you  wliile  you  remain.  '  Mr.  Char- 
ley' is  an  unsatisfactory  sort  of  application," 

"  IVfy  name  is  Stuart ;  but,  as  a  favor,  may  I  request 
you  to  go  on  calling  me  Charley  ?  " 

"  Stuart  !  "  said  the  other,  quickly  ;  "  one  of  the  Stuarts, 
bankers,  of  New  York  ?  " 

"  The  same.  My  father  is  James  Stuart ;  you  know  him 
probably  ?  " 

The  face  of  Frederic  Darrell  darkened  and  grew  almost 
stern.  "  Your  father  was  my  wife's  cousin — Editli's  mother. 
Have  you  never  heard  him  speak  of  Kleanor  Stuart?" 

"  Wlio  married  Frederic  Darrell  ?  Often.  My  dear  Mr. 
Darrell,  is  it  possible  that  you — that  1  have  the  happiness 
of  Loing  related  to  j-ou  ?  " 

"To  my  daughter,  if  you  like  — her  second  cousin — tome, 
no,"  Mr.  Darrell  said,  half-smiling,  half  sad.  "Your  father 
and  his  funily  long  ago  repudiated  all  claims  of  mine — I  am 
not  going  to  force  myself  upon  their  notice  now.  Edie — 
ICilie,  my  love,  come  in  here,  and  listen  to  some  strange 
ne*'s." 

She  threw  down  her  spade,  and  came  in  laughing  and 
glowing,  her  hair  tumbled,  her  collar  awry,  her  dress  soiled, 
her  hands  not  over  clean,  but  looking,  oh  !  so  indescribably 
fresh,  and  fair,  and  healthful,  and  handsome. 


124 


A   NIG  FIT  IN  THE   SNOW. 


"  What  is  it  ?  "  slie  asked.  "  Has  Mr.  Charley  gone  and 
sprained  his  otiier  ankle  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that."  And  then  her  fiuhcr  nar- 
rated the  discovery  they  had  mutually  niade.  Miss  Dilliy 
opened  her  bright  brown  eyes. 

"  Like  a  chai)ter  out  of  a  novel  where  everybody  turns  out 
to  be  somebody  else.  '  It  is — it  is — it  is — my  own,  my  long- 
lost  son  ! '  And  so  we're  second  cousins,  and  you're  Char- 
ley Stuart  ;  and  Trixy — now  who's  Trixy  ?" 

"  Trixy's  my  sister.  How  do  you  happen  to  know  any- 
thing about  her  ?  " 

Edith  made  a  wry  face. 

"  The  nights  I've  spent — the  days  I've  dragged  through, 
the  tortures  I've  undergone,  listening  to  you  shouting  for 
'Trixy,'  would  have  driven  any  less  well-balanced  brain 
stark  mad  !  May  I  sit  down  ?  Digging  in  the  sunshine,  and 
rowing  with  Johnny  Ellis  is  awfully  hot  work." 

"  DicminiT  in  the  sunshine  is  detrimental  to  the  comidex- 
ion,  and  rowing  with  Johnny  Ellis  is  injurious  to  the  temper. 
I  object  to  both." 

"Oh,  you  do?"  said  Miss  Darrell,  opening  her  eyes 
again  ;  "  it  matters  so  much,  too,  whether  you  object  or 
not.  Johnny  Ellis  is  useful,  and  sometimes  agreeable. 
Charley  Stuart  is  neither  one  nor  t'other.  If  I  mayn't  dig 
and  quarrel  with  him,  is  there  anything  your  lordship  wou'J 
like  me  to  do  ?  " 

"You  may  sit  on  this  footstool  at  my  feet — woman's 
pro]ier  place — and  read  me  to  sleei).  That  book  you  were 
reading  aloud  yesterday— what  was  it?  Oh,  '  Pendennis,' 
was  rather  amusing— what  I  heard  of  it." 

"  What  you  heard  of  it !  "  Miss  Darrell  retorts,  indignantly. 
"You  do  well  to  add  that.  The  man  who  could  go  to  sU-ep 
listening  to  Thackerav  is  a  man  worthy  only  of  contempt 
and  scorn  !     There's  Air.  Ellis  calling  me — I  must  go." 

Miss  Darrell  and  Mr.  Stuart,  in  his  \)resent  state  of  con- 
valescence, rarely  met  except  to  quarrel.  They  spoke  their 
minds  to  one  another,  with  a  refreshing  fiankness  remark- 
able to  hear. 

"  You  remind  me  of  one  1  loved  very  dearly  once,  Dithy," 
Charley  said  to  her,  sadly,  one  day,  after  an  unusually 
stormy  wordy  war — "  in  fact,  the  only  one  I  ever  did  love. 


A   NIGHT  IN  THE  SNOIV. 


12: 


and 


out 


lar- 


You  resemble  her,  too — the  same  sort  of  hair  and  complex- 
ion, and  exactly  the  same  sort  of — ah — temper!  Ilei  name 
was  l''itlo — slie  was  a  black  and  tan  terrier — very  like  yon, 
my  dear,  very  like.  Ah !  these  accidental  resemblances  are 
cruel  things — they  tear  o])eu  half-healed  wounds,  and  cause 
tlie:!i  to  bleed  afresh.  T'ido  met  with  an  untimely  end — she 
was  drowned  one  dark  night  in  a  cistern.  I  thought  I  had 
outlived  t!i(it  grief,  but  when  I  look  at  you — " 

A  stinging  box  on  the  ear,  given  with  right  good  will,  cut 
short  the  mournful  reminiscence,  and  brought  tears  to  Mr. 
Stuart's  eyes,  diat  were  not  tears  of  grief  for  Fido. 

"You  wretch!"  cried  Miss  Darrell,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  I've  a  complexion  of  black  and  tan,  have  I,  and  a  tem- 
per to  match  !  Tlie  only  thing  /see  to  regret  in  your  story 
is,  that  it  wasn't  Fido's  master  who  fell  into  the  cistern,  in- 
stead of  Fido.  To  think  1  should  live  to  be  called  a  Luack 
and  tan  !  " 

They  never  met  except  to  quarrel.  Edith's  inflammatory 
temper  was  up  in  arms  perpetually.  They  kept  the  house 
in  an  uncommonly  lively  state.  It  seemed  to  agree  with 
Charley.  His  twisted  ankle  grew  strong  rapidly,  llesh 
antl  color  came  back,  the  world  was  not  to  be  robbed  of 
one  of  its  brightest  ornaments  just  yet.  He  put  off  writin'r 
to  his  friends  from  day  to  day,  to  the  great  disapproval  oi 
Mr.  Darrell,  who  was  rather  behind  the  age  in  his  notions  of 
lilial  duty. 

"It's  of  no  use  worrying,"  Mr.  Stuart  made  answer,  with 
the  easy  insouciance  concerning  all  things  earthly  which  sat 
so  naturally  upon  him;  "  bad  shillings  always  come  back — 
u't  that  truthful  old  adage  console  them.  Why  should  I 
fidget  myself  about  them.  Take  my  word  they're  not  fidget- 
ing themselves  about  me.  The  governor's  absorbed  in  the 
x\m  and  fall  of  stocks,  the  maternal  is  ui)  to  her  eyes  in  the 
last  jiarlies  of  the  season,  and  my  sister  is  just  out  and  ab- 
sorbed body  and  soul  in  beaux  and  dresses.  They  never 
expect  me  until  they  see  me." 

'  About  the  close  of  April  Mr.  Stuart  and  Miss  Darrell 
fought  their  last  battle  and  |)arted.  He  went  back  to  New 
York  and  to  his  own  world,  and  life  stagnant  and  Hat  llowed 
back  on  its  old  level  for  Edith  Darrell. 

Stagnant  and  ilat  it  had  always  been,  but  never  half  so 


126 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE  SNOIV. 


dreary  as  now.  Something  had  come  into  her  life  and  gone 
out  of  it,  something  briglit  and  new,  and  wondei  fully  pleas- 
ant. There  was  a  great  blank  wliere  Charley's  handsome 
face  had  been,  and  all  at  once  life  seemed  to  lose  its  relish 
for  this  girl  of  sixteen.  A  restlessness  took  possession  of 
of  her.  Sandypoint  and  all  belonging  to  it  grew  distastt  Uil. 
Sh'i  wanted  change,  excitement — Charley  Stuart,  perhaps— 
something  ditlerent  certainly  from  what  she  was  used  to,  or 
likely  to  get. 

Charley  went  home  and  told  the  "governor,"  and  the 
"maternal,"  and  "Trixy"  of  his  adventure,  and  the  girl 
who  had  saved  his  life.  Miss  Beatrix  listened  in  a  glow  of 
admiration. 

"  Is  she  pretty,  Charley  ?  "  she  asked,  of  course,  the  first 
inevitable  female  question. 

••i:'retty?"  Charley  responded,  meditatively,  as  though 
the  idea  struck  him  for  the  first  time.  "  Well,  ye-e-es.  In 
a  cream-colored  sort  of  way,  Edith  isn't  bad-looking.  It 
would  be  very  nice  of  you  now,  Trix,  to  write  her  a  letter,  I 
think,  seeing  she  saved  my  life,  and  nursed  me,  and  is  your 
second  cousm,  and  everything." 

Beatrix  needed  no  urging.  She  was  an  impetuous,  en- 
thusiastic young  woman  of  eighteen,  fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully addicted  to  correspondence.  She  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
long,  gushing  letter  to  her  "  cream-colored  "  cousin.  Mrs. 
Stuart  dropped  her  a  line  of  thanks  al.io,  and  C'nirley,  of 
course,  wrote,  and  there  her  adventure  seemed  to  come  to  an 
end.  Miss  Stuart's  letters  were  longand  frecjuent.  Mr.  Stuart's 
rambling  epistle  alternately  made  her  laugh  and  lose  her  tem- 
l)er,  a  daily  loss  with  poor,  discontented  Edith.  With  the  fine 
discrimination  most  men  possess,  he  sent  her,  on  her  seven- 
teent!  .rthday,  a  set  of  turquoise  and  pearls,  which  made 
her  sallow  complexion  hideous,  or,  at  least,  as  hideous  as 
anything  can  make  a  pretty  girl.  That  summer  he  ran 
down  to  Sandypoint  for  a  fortnight's  fishing,  and  an  oasis 
came  suddenly  in  the  desert  of  Edith's  life.  She  and  C'har- 
ley  might  quarrel  still,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  they  did,  on 
every  |)ossible  occasion  and  on  every  possible  point,  but 
they  were  never  satisfied  a  moment  apart. 

The  fortnight  ended,  the  fish  were  caught,  he  went  back, 
and  the  dull  days  and  the  long  nights,  the  cooking,  darning. 


TJi/XV'S  /"ARTY. 


127 


mending  began  again,  and  went  on  until  madness  would 
liave  been  a  relief.  It  was  the  old  story  of  the  Sleeping 
Ijeauty  waiting  for  tlie  prince  to  come,  and  wake  her  into 
into  life  and  love  with  iiis  kisri.  Only  in  this  instance  the 
prince  had  coaie  and  gone,  and  left  ijeauty,  in  the  sulks,  be- 
ll in  d. 

Slie  was  eighteen  years  old  and  sick  of  her  life.  And 
just  when  disgust  and  discontent  were  taking  palpable  form, 
and  she  was  debating  between  a  jump  into  Sandypoint  bay 
and  running  off,  came  Chaiivy,  with  his  mother's  letter. 
From  that  hour  the  story  of  Edith  Darrell's  life  began. 


In 

g.     Jt 

:ttcr,  I 

your 


CHAPTER   III. 


TRIXYS    PARTY. 


"S^ 


WO  weeks  sufiiced  for  Miss  Darrell's  preparations. 
A  quantity  of  n>i\v  linen,  three  new  dresses,  one 
hat,  one  spring  sacque — that  was  all. 

Mr.  Darrell  had  consented — what  was  there  ho 
could  have  refused  his  darling?  He  had  consented,  hilling 
the  bitter  l>ang  it  cost  him,  deep  in  his  own  quiet  heart.  Jt 
was  the  loss  of  her  mother  over  again  ;  the  tender  passion 
and  the  jiresent  Mrs.  Darrell  were  two  facts  perfectly 
incompatible. 

Mrs.  Darrell  aided  briskly  in  the  ])reparation — to  tell  the 
truth,  she  was  not  sorry  to  be  rid  of  her  step-daughter,  be- 
tween whom  and  herself  perpetual  war  raged.  Edith  as  a 
worker  was  a  failure  ;  she  went  about  the  dingy  house,  in 
her  dingy  dresses,  with  the  air  of  an  out-at-elbows  duchess. 
She  snubbed  the  boarders,  she  boxed  the  juvenile  Darrell's 
ears,  she  "  sassed  "  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

"  It  speaks  volumes  for  your  amiability,  Dithy,"  Charley 
remarked,  "  the  intense  eagerness  and  deligiit,  with  whicii 
everybody  in  this  establishment  hails  your  departure.  Four 
dirty  little  Darrells  run  about  the  j)assages  with  their  war- 
whoop,  'Dithy's  going — hooray!  Now  we'll  have  fun!' 
Vour  step-mother's  sere  and  yellow  visage  beans  with  bliss; 


128 


TRIXY'S  PAR  TV. 


even  the  young  gentlemen  who  are  lodged  and  boarded, 
Grcek-cd  aTiJ  Latin-cd  here,  wear  faces  of  ^;u[)|)re^sell  relief, 
that  tells  I'.a  cwa  tale  to  the  student  of  luimau  nature. 
Your  welfare  must  be  un.s|)eakal)ly  precious  to  tiieui,  I'klie, 
when  they  bea.r  their  approaching  bereavement  so  well." 

lie  paused.  The  speech  was  a  lengthy  one,  and  lengthy 
speeches  mostly  exhausted  Mr.  Sluait.  He  lay  back, 
watching  h;s  fair  relative  as  she  sat  sewing  near,  with  lazy, 
halt'- closed  ej'es. 

Her  work  dropped  in  her  lap,  a  faint  flush  rose  up  over 
her  dusk  face. 

*'  Charley."  she  responded,  gravely,  "  I  don't  wonder  you 
say  this — it  is  true,  and  nobody  feels  it  more  than  I.  1  am 
a  disagreeable  creature,  a  selfish  nuisance,  an  idle,  discon- 
tented kill-joy.  I  only  wonder,  you  are  not  afraid  to  take 
nie  with  you  at  all." 

Mr.  Stuart  sat  up,  rather  surprised. 

"  My  dearest  coz,  don't  be  so  tremendously  in  earnest. 
If  I  had  thought  you  were  going  to  take  it  seriously — " 

"  Let  us  be  serious  for  once — we  have  all  our  lives  left 
for  quarreliirsg,''  said  .Miss  Darrell,  as  though  quarrelling 
were  a  pleasant  recreation.  "  I  sit  down  antl  try  to  think 
sometimes  why  I  am  so  miserable— so  wretched  in  my 
present  l:fe,  why  I  hail  the  prospect  of  a  new  one  with 
such  delight  I  see  oiiier  girls — nicer,  cleverer  girls  than  1 
am  every  \vay,  and  their  lives  suffice  for  them — the  daily, 
domestic  routine  that  is  most  horrible  drudgery  to  me, 
pleases  and  satisfies  them.  It  must  be  that  1  have  an  inca- 
pacity for  life ;  I  daresay  when  the  novelty  and  gloss  wear 
off,  I  shall  tire  equally  of  the  life  I  am  going  to.  A  new 
dress,  a  dance,  a  beau,  and  the  hoi)e  of  a  prospective  hus- 
band sufiices  for  the  girls  I  speak  of,  l'"or  me — none  of 
your  sarcastic  smiles,  sir — the  thought  of  a  future  husband 
is—" 

"Only  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  ]?ut  there  is  a 
future  husband.  Vou  are  forced  to  admit  that,  Dithy.  I 
wonder  what  he  is  to  be  like  ?  A  modern  Sir  Laimcelot, 
with  the  beauty  of  all  the  gods,  the  courage  of  a  Cceur  de 
Lion,  tlie  bow  of  a  Chesterfield,  and  the  purse  of  Fortu- 
natus.     Tiiafs  the  photo,  isn't  it?" 

"  No,  sir — not  a  bit  like  it.     The  purse  of  a  Fortunatus, 


TRixY's  Party. 


129 


if  you  like — I  ask  nothing  more.  The  Sir  Launcclots  of 
life,  if  they  exist  at  all,  are  mostly  poor  men,  and  I  don't 
want  anything  to  do  with  poor  men.  My  marriage  is  to  he 
a  purely  business  transaction — I  settled  i/tai  long  ago.  He 
may  have  the  form  and  face  of  a  Satyr;  he  :iay  have  sev- 
enty years,  so  that  he  be  worth  a  million  or  so,  1  will  drop 
my  best  courtesy  when  he  asks,  and  say,  'Yes,  and  ihanky, 
sir.'  If  the  Apollo  himself,  knelt  before  me,  with  an 
eini)ty  purse,  I  should  turn  my  back  upon  him  in  jiity  and 
di^dain." 

"  Is  that  meant  for  me,  Edie  ? "  Mr.  Stuart  inquired, 
rising  on  his  elbow,  and  admiringly  gazing  at  his  own 
handsome  face  in  the  glass.  "  Because  if  it  is,  don't  e.\- 
cite  3-ourself.  Forewarned  is  forearmed — I'm  not  going  to 
ask  you." 

"  I  never  thought  you  were,"  Edith  said,  laughing.  "  I 
never  aspired  so  high.  As  well  love  some  bright  particular 
star,  etcetera,  etcetera,  as  the  only  son  of  James  Stuart, 
Esquire,  lineal  descendant  of  the  Princes  of  Scotland,  and 
hanker  of  Wall  Street.  No,  Charley,  I  know  whatjw/  will 
do.  You'll  drift  through  life  for  the  next  three  or  four 
years,  as  you  have  drifted  up  to  the  present,  well  looking, 
well  dressed,  well  mannered,  and  then  some  day  your  father 
will  come  to  you  and  say  gruffly,  'Charles!'  (lulith  grows 
dramatic  as  she  narrates — it  is  a  husky  masculine  voice  that 
speaks:)  '  Here's.  iMiss  Petroleum's  father,  with  a  million  and 
a  halt" — ^only  child — order  a  suit  of  new  clothes  and  go  and 
ask  her  to  marry  you  ! '  And  you  will  look  at  him  with  a 
helpless  sigh,  anil  go.  Your  father  will  select  your  wife,  sir, 
and  you'll  take  her,  like  a  good  boy,  when  you're  told.  I 
slicnildn't  wonder  now,  but  that  it  is  to  select  a  wife  for  you, 
and  a  husband  for  Trixy,  he  is  taking  this  projected  trip  to 
l"uro]ie." 

"Shouldn't  you?  Neither  should  I.  Never  wonder. 
Against  my  principles."  Charley  murmurs. 

"There  are  plenty  of  titled  aristocracy  abroad — so  I  am 
told — ready  to  silver-gild  their  coronets  by  a  union  with 
lilutocracy.  Plenty  Lady  Janes  and  Lady  xVIarys  ready  to 
sell  themselves  to  the  highest  bidder." 

"As  Edith  Darrell  is?" 

"  As  Edith  Darrell  is.     It's  all  very  fine  talking  of  love 
G* 


130 


TniXY'S  PARTY. 


and  devotion,  and  the  emptiness  of  life  without.  Believe 
me,  if  one  has  plenty  of  money  one  can  dispense  with  love. 
I've  read  a  good  many  novels,  but  they  haven't  tuinei.!  my 
head  on  i/iat  subject.  From  all  I've  read,  indeed,  I  slxuild 
think  it  must  be  a  very  imcomfortable  sort  of  intermittent 
fever,  indeed.  Don't  love  anybody  excei)t  yourself,  and  it 
is  out  of  the  power  of  any  human  being  to  make  you  very 
wretched." 

"  A  sentiment  whose  truth  is  only  equaled  by  its — selfish- 
ness." 

"  Yes,  it  is  selfish ;  and  it  is  your  thoroughly  selfish 
pcojile,  who  get  the  best  of  everything  in  this  world.  I  am 
selfish  and  worldly — ambitious  and  heartless,  and  all  that  is 
abominable.  I  may  as  well  own  it.  You'll  find  it  out-  for 
yourself  soon." 

"A  most  unnecessary  acknowledgment,  my  dear  child — ■ 
it  is  patent  to  the  dullest  observer,  liut,  now,  Edith — look 
here — this  is  serious,  mind  I"  He  raises  himself  again  on  • 
his  elbow,  and  looks,  with  a  curious  smile  into  her  darkly- 
earnest,  cynical  young  face.  "  Suppose  I  am  madly  in  love 
with  you — 'madly  in  love'  is  the  correct  phrase,  isn't  it? — 
suppose  I  am  at  your  feet,  going  through  all  the  phases  of 
the  potential  mood,  'commanding,  exhorting,  entreating' 
you  to  marry  me — you  wouldn't  say  no,  would  you,  I'^die? 
You  like  me — don't  deny  it.  You  know  you  do— like  me 
well  enough  to  marr)'  me  to-morrow,  \yould  you  refuse 
me  in  spite  of  my  dependence  on  my  father,  and  my  empty 
purse  ?  " 

He  took  her  hand,  and  held  it  tightly,  desi)ite  h  r  strug- 
gles. 

"  Would  you,  Fxlie?"  he  says,  putting  his  arm  around  her 
waist.  "I'm  not  a  sentimental  fellow,  but  1  believe  in  love. 
Come  I  you  wouldn't — you  couldn't  bid  ine  go." 

Her  color  had  risen — that  lovely  rose-pink  color,  that  lit 
her  brunette  face  into  such  beauty — but  she  resolutely 
freed  herself,  and  met  his  half-tender,  half-merry  glance, 
full. 

"  I  would,"  she  said,  "  if  I — liked  you  so,  that  you  filled 
my  whole  heart.  Let  me  go,  sir,  and  no  more  of  this  non- 
sense. I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  and  what  conies 
of  marrying  for  love.     There  was  my  own  mother,  she  left 


T/e/XV'S  PARTY. 


131 


a  rich  and  luxurious  home,  wealthy  suitors,  all  the  comforts 
and  elegances  of  life,  without  wliicli  life  isn't  worth  living, 
and  ran  away  with  papa.  'J'iien  followed  long  years  of  pov- 
erty, discomfort,  illness,  and  miserable  grubbing.  She  never 
complained — perhaps  she  wasn't  even  very  unhajipy  ;  hcr's 
wasn't  the  sort  of  love  that  Hies  out  of  the  window  when 
l)overty  comes  in  at  the  door — she  just  faded  away  and  died. 
For  myself  I  \\fvc  been  dissatisfied  with  my  lot  ever  since 
1  can  remember — pining  for  the  glory  and  grandeur  of  this 
wicked  world.  There  is  but  one  way  in  which  they  can 
ever  be  mine — by  marriage.  If  marriage  will  not  bring 
them,  then  I  will  go  to  my  grave  Edith  Darrell." 

"Which  I  don't  think  you  will,"  Mr.  Stuart  responded. 
"  Yomig  ladies  like  you,  who  set  out  on  tiie  searcii  niatri- 
moiii.il  with  lots  of  common-sense,  worldliness,  selfishness, 
and  mercenary  motives,  generally  reach  the  goal.  It's  a 
fair  enough  exchange — so  much  youth  and  good  looks  for 
so  many  thousand  dollars.  I  wish  you  all  success.  Miss 
Darrell,  in  your  laudable  undertaking.  It  is  well  we  should 
understand  each  other,  at  once  and  forever,  or  even  I  some 
day  might  be  tempted  to  make  a  fool  of  myself.  Your  ex- 
cellent counsels,  my  dearest  cousin,  will  be  invaluable  to  me, 
should  my  lagging  footsteps  falter  by  the  way.  Edith  !  where 
have  you  learned  to  be  so  hard,  so  worldly,  so — if  you  will 
pardon  me — so  unwomanly?" 

"Is  it  unwomanly r"'  she  repeated  dreamily.  "Well, 
perhaps  it  is.  I  am  iionest  at  least — give  me  credit  for  that. 
My  own  hard  life  has  taught  inc,  books  have  taught  me, 
looking  at  my  mother  and  listening  to  my  step-mother  have 
taught  me.  I  feel  old  at  eighteen — old  and  tired.  I  am 
just  one  of  those  girls,  I  think,  who  turn  out  very  good  or 
very  bad  women,  as  fixte  deals  with  them.  It's  not  too  late 
yet  to  draw  back,  Charley.  Your  mother  can  easily  get 
another  young  lady  to  do  the  French  and  German  business. 
You  can  tell  her  I  don't  suit,  and  leave  me  at  liome." 

"  Not  too  late  to  draw  back,"  he  said,  with  his  indolent 
smile.  "  Is  there  ever  such  a  thing  as  drawing  back  at  al!  ? 
What  is  done  is  done.  I  couldn't  go  without  you  now,  if  I 
tried.  O,  don't  look  alarmed,  I  don't  mean  anything.  You 
amuse  and  interest  me,  that  is  all.  You're  something  of  a 
study — entirely  diflfcrent  from  the  genus  young  lady  I'm  ac- 


133 


TJiJXY'S  PARI  v. 


customed  to.  Only — keep  yni'r  frankness  for  Cousin  Char- 
ley, lie's  harmless;  don't  dis|ilay  U  to  tlie  rest  of  the  workl. 
It  might  spoil  your  cliaiices.  I'-ven  senile  millionnuires  ilon't 
care  to  walk  into  the  traj),  unless  die  springs  are  hitldeii  in 
roses.  Come,  throw  down  that  endless  sewing,  and  let's 
have  a  walk  on  the  beach.  W'lio  knows  when  we  may  sec 
the  Sim  go  down,  together  again,  over  the  classic  waters  of 
Sandypoint  J>ay."  * 

ICdith  laughed,  but  she  rose  to  obey. 

"  And  I  thought  you  were  not  sentimental,  One  would 
think  it  the  Bay  of  Naples.  However,  as  we  start  to-mor- 
row, I  don't  mind  going  down  and  bidding  the  old  rocks  and 
sands  good-by." 

She  put  on  her  hat,  and  the  two  went  wandering  away 
together,  to  watch  the  sun  set  over  the  sea.  In  the  rosy 
light  of  the  spring  sunset,  the  fishing  boats  drifted  on  the 
shining  waters,  and  the  fisherman's  chant  came  borne  to 
their  ears. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  that  other  April  evening  two  years 
ago,  Dithy,  when  we  came  down  here  to  say  good-by.  You 
cried  then  at  parting — do  you  remember?  ]5ut  you  were 
only  sixteen,  poor  child,  and  knew  no  bett':v.  You  wouldn't 
cry  now,  would  you,  for  any  man  in  the  ur.iv'.irse  ?  " 

"  Not  for  Charley  Stuart  certainly — he  iv^edn't  think  it." 

"  He  doesn't  think  it,  my  pet ;  he  never  looks  for  impos- 
sibilities. 1  wonder  if  that  night  in  the  snow  were  to  come 
again  if  you'd  risk  your  life  now,  as  you  did  then  ?  " 

"  Risk  my  life  I  What  bosh  1  Tliere  was  no  risk  ;  and 
bad  as  I  am,  and  heartless  as  I've  grown,  I  don't  think — 1 
don't  think  I'd  walk  away,  and  leave  any  poor  wretch  to 
die.  Yes,  Charley,  if  the  night  in  the  snow  came  over 
again,  I'd  do  now  as  I  did  then." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  was  a  kindness  after  all,"  Charley  re- 
sponds. "  I  have  a  presentiment  that  a  day  will  come, 
Dithy,  when  I'll  hate  you.  1  shouldn't  have  suffered  much 
if  you  had  let  me  freeze  to  deatii.  And  I've  a  strong  ])re- 
science  (is  that  the  word)  that  I'll  fiill  in  love  with  you  some 
day,  and  be  jilted,  and  undergo  untold  torture,  and  hate  you 
with  a  perfect  freiizy.  It  will  be  a  very  fatiguing  experience, 
but  I  feel  in  my  bu.ies  that  it  is  to  be." 

"  Indeed  !     A  Saul  among  the  prophets.     I  shall  not  be 


Th'LXY'S  PARTY. 


133 


and 


surprised,  however ;  it  is  my  iisiKil  fate  to  he  liatcd.  And 
now,  as  we  scciii  to  have  thifted  into  disagreeable  and  per- 
sonal sorv  jf  talk,  suppose  we  change  the  subject?  There 
is  a  dory  jonder;  if  your  indolent  sultanship  can  hear  the 
lab  )r  of  steering,  I'll  give  you  a  last  row  across  the  hay." 

'I'liey  tai;e  the  dory  and  glide  away.  Charley  lies  back, 
his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  smoking  a  cigar  and  steering. 
She  has  the  oars,  the  red  sunlight  is  on  her  face,  l-ldith  de- 
fies tan  and  sunburn.  She  looks  at  lazy  Charley,  and  sings 
as  she  pulls,  a  saucy  smile  of  det'iancc  on  her  lips : 

*'  It  was  on  a  Monday  morning, 

KiL;lit  t-aily  in  llie  year, 
That  (_  liailcy  caino  to  our  town, 

'I'lic  youii;^  Clii-'valicr. 
Anil  Charley  he's  my  (hurling, 

My  (laiHni;,  '"Y  iharliiip  ; 
And  Cliarlcy  lie's  my  darling, 

Tile  young  Clievaiier  !  " 


What  Charley  answers  is  not  on  record.  Perhaps  the 
aged  milliop.naire,  who  is  to  be  the  future  happy  possessor  of 
Miss  Darrell's  charms,  would  not  care  to  hear  it.  They 
drift  on — they  are  together— they  ask  no  more.  The  rosy 
after-glow  of  the  sunset  fades  out,  the  night  comes  white 
with  stars,  the  faint  spring  wind  sighs  over  the  bay,  and  both 
are  silent.  "  And,"  says  Charley's  inner  consciousness,  "  if 
this  he  not  falling  in  love,  1  wonder  what  is?  " 

They  linger  yet  longer.  It  is  the  last  night,  and  roman- 
tically enough,  for  so  worldly  and  cynical  a  pair,  they  watch 
the  faint  little  April  moon  rise.  Kdith  looks  over  her  left 
shoulder  at  it,  and  says  something  under  her  breath. 

"What  invocation  are  you  murmuring  there?"  Charley 
asks,  half  asleep. 

"  1  was  wishing.  I  always  wish  when  I  see  the  new 
moon." 

"  For  a  rich  husband  of  course,  Edie  !  "  He  sits  up  sud- 
denly.    "There's  the  baronet  !     Sui)pose  you  go  for  him." 

"  '  Go  for  him  !  "  What  a  horribly  vulgar  way  you  have 
of  speaking.  No.  I'll  leave  him  for  Trixy.  Have  you 
had  enough  of  starlight  and  moonlight,  Mr.  Stuart,  on  Sandy- 
point  Bay,  because  I'm  going  to  turn  and  row  home.     I've 


134 


TRIXY'S  PARTY. 


had  no  supper,  and  I  shall  eat  you  if  we  stay  here  fasting 
imich  longer." 

She  rows  back,  and  arm  in  arm  they  ascend  tlic  rocky 
path,  and  hnger  one  last  moment  at  the  garden  gate. 

"  So  ends  the  old  life,"  Edith  says,  softly.  "  It  is  my  last 
night  at  home.  I  ought  to  feel  sad,  I  suppose,  but  1  don't. 
I  never  felt  so  happy  in  my  life." 

He  is  holding  her  hand.  For  two  who  are  not  lovers,  and 
never  mean  to  be,  they  understand  each  other  wonderfully 
well. 

"And  remember  your  promise,"  he  answers.  "Let  the 
life  that  is  coming  bring  what  it  may,  you  are  never  to  blame 
me." 

Then  Mrs.  Darrell's  tall,  spare  figure  ajjpears  in  the 
moonlight,  summoning  them  sharply  to  tea,  and  hands  are 
unclasped,  and  in  silence  they  follow  hej. 

The  first  train  from  Sandyjioint  to  Boston  bears  away 
Edith  Darrell  and  Charley  Stuart.  Not  alone  together, 
however — forbid  it  Mrs.  (Irundy  !  Mrs.  Rogers,  the  Sandy- 
])oint  milliner,  is  going  to  New  York  for  the  sununer  fashions, 
and  the  young  lady  travels  under  her  protection.  They 
reach  ]5oston  in  time  for  the  train  that  coimects  with  the 
Tail  River  boats.  It  has  been  a  day  of  brightest  sunshine  ; 
it  is  a  lovely  spring  night.  They  dine  on  board.  Mrs. 
Rogers  is  sleepy  and  tired  and  goes  to  bed  (she  and  Edilh 
share  the  same  state-room),  with  a  last  charge  to  Mr.  Stu- 
art not  to  keep  Miss  Darrell  tooMong  on  deck  in  the  nigiit  air. 

They  lloat  grandly  up  the  bright  river.  Two  wandering 
harpists  and  a  violinist  play  very  sweetly  near  them,  and 
they  walk  up  and  down,  talking  and  feeling  uncounnonly 
hai)py  and  free,  until  Charley's  watch  points  to  eleven,  and 
the  music  comes  to  a  stop.  They  say  good-night.  She  goes 
to  Mrs.  Rogers  and  the  upper  berth,  and  Mr.  Stuart  medita- 
tively turns  to  his  own.  He  is  thinking,  that  all  thir.gs  con- 
sidered, it  is  just  .,s  well  tiiis  particularly  fascinating  com- 
panionship, ends  in  a  manner  to-morrow. 

To-morrow  comes.  It  is  Miss  Beatrix  Stuart's  birthday. 
The  great  party  is  to  be  tonight.  They  shake  hands  and 
part  with  Airs.  Rogers  on  the  pier.  Charley  hails  a  hack 
and  assists  his  cousin  in,  and  they  are  whirled  off  to  the 
l>alatial  aveime  up-lown. 


TKIXY'S  PARTY. 


135 


Tlic  house  is  a  stately  brown-stone  front,  of  course,  and 
on  a  sunny  corner.  Edith  leans  back,  quite  silv-nt,  her 
heart  beating  as  siie  looks.  'I'lie  wiiirl,  the  crash,  the  rush 
of  New  York  streets  stun  her,  the  statcliness  of  the  Stuart 
mansion  awes  her.  Siie  is  very  pale,  her  lii)s  are  set  to- 
gether. She  turns  to  Charley  suddenly,  and  holds  out  her 
hands  to  him  as  a  helpless  child  might. 

"  1  feel  lost  already,  and — and  ever  so  little  afraid.  How 
big  and  grand  it  looks.  Don't  desert  ine,  Charley.  I  feel 
as  though  I  were  astray  in  a  strange  land." 

He  squeezes  the  little  hand,  he  whispers  something  reas- 
suring, and  life  and  color  come  back  to  her  face. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy,  Dithy,"  is  what  he  says.  "  Like 
Mrs.  Mieawber,  '  I'll  never  desert  you. '  " 

He  rings  the  door  bell  sharply,  a  smart-looking  young 
wmnan  admits  them,  and  Edilli  goes  with  hiu)  into  a  splen- 
did and  spacious  apartment,  where  three  people  sit  at  break- 
fist.  Peiliaps  it  is  the  garish  sunshine,  si)arkling  on  so  much 
cut  glass  and  silver,  liial  dazzles  Edith's  eyes,  but  f'jr  a  min- 
ute she  can  see  noliiing.  Tiien  the  mist  clears  away,  ihe 
trio  have  risen — aiiomi)ous-looking  old  gentleman  in  a  shi,^!ng 
bald  head  and  expansive  white  vest,  a  pallid,  feeble-looking 
elderly  lady  in  a  lace  cap,  and  a  tall,  stylish  girl,  with  Charley's 
eyes  and  hair,  in  violet  ribbons  and  white  cashmere.  The 
bald  gentlemen  shakes  hands  witli  her,  and  welcomes  her  in 
a  huhky  baritone  ;  tiie  faded,  elderly  lady,  and  stylish  young 
lady  kiss  her,  and  say  some  very  pleasant  and  gracious 
words.  As  in  a  dream  Edith  sees  ami  hears  all — as  in  a 
dieam  she  is  led  olf  by  Beatrix. 

"  1  shall  take  you  to  your  room  myself  I  only  hope  you 
may  like  it.  The  furniture  and  arrangement  are  my  tisle, 
every  bit.  Oh  you  dear  darling  !  "  cries  Miss  Stuart,  stopping 
in  the  passage  to  give  Edith  a  hug.  "  You  don't  know  bow- 
frightened  I've  been  tliat  you  wouldn't  come.  I'm  in  love 
with  you  already  !  And  what  a  iieroine  you  are — a  real 
Crace — what's-iier-name — saving  Charley's  life  and  all  that. 
And  best  of  all,  you're  in  time  for  tiie  ball — wh'ch  i--.  a 
riiyme,  thougli  1  didn't  mean  it.''  Slie  laughs  and  sudilen'y 
gives  Edith  another  hug.  "  You  pretty  creature  !  "  she  says; 
"  I'd  no  idea  you   were  half  so  good-looking.       I   asked 


136 


TRIXY'S  PARTY. 


Cliarley,  but  you  might  as  well  ask  a  lamp-post  as  Charley. 
Here  is  yt'ur  room — how  do  you  like  it  ?  '' 

She  would  have  been  diflicult  to  please  indeed,  if  she  had 
not  liked  it.  To  Edith's  inexperienced  eyes,  it  is  a  glowing 
nest  of  amber  silk  curtains,  yellowisii  Brussclls  car[)et,  lint>:d 
■Wiiiis,  i)ietty  pictures,  gilt  frames,  mirrors,  ornaments,  and 
dainty  French  bed. 

"  Do  you  like  it?  But  I  see  by  your  face  you  do.  I'm 
so  glad.  This  is  my  room  adjoining,  and  here's  your  bath. 
Now  lay  off  your  things  and  come  down  to  breakfast." 

Still  in  a  clream  Edith  obeys.  She  descends  to  breakf.ist 
in  her  gray  travelling  suit,  looking  pale,  and  not  at  all  bril- 
liant. Miss  Stuart,  who  has  had  her  doubts,  that  this  country 
cousin  may  prove  a  rival,  is  reassured.  She  takes  her 
breakfast,  and  then  Beatrix  conducts  her  over  the  iiouse — a 
wonder  of  si)lendor,  of  velvet  carpets,  magnificent  ujjIioI- 
stering,  lace  drai)ings,  gilding  and  ormolu.  But  her  face 
keeps  its  pale,  grave  look.  Trixy  wonders  if  slie  is  not  a 
stupid  little  body  after  all.  Last  of  all  they  reach  the  sacred 
inivacy  of  Trixy's  own  room,  and  there  she  displays  her 
ball  dress.  She  expiates  on  its  make  aiul  its  merits,  in  pro- 
fessional language,  and  with  a  volubility  that  makes  Edith's 
head  swim. 

"It  is  made  with  a  court  train,  trimmed  with  a  deep 
ilounce,  waved  in  the  lower  cr\ge,  and  this  llounce  is  trimmed 
with  four  narrow  flounces,  edged  with  narrow  point  lace. 
The  sides  arc  en  rcvcrs,  with  sashes  tied  in  butterfly  bow  in 
the  centre  of  the  back,  below  the  puffing  of  the  skirt  near 
the  waist.  The  front  of  the  skirt  is  trimmed  to  correspond 
with  the  train,  the  short  apron,  flounced  and  trimmed  wiih 
l)oint  lace,  gathered  up  at  the  sides,  under  the  rrcers  on  tiie 
train.  The  waist  is  high  in  the  shoulders,  V  shaped  in  front 
and  back,  with  small  flowing  sleeves,  finished  with  jilaiiings 
of  white  silk  tulle.  And  now,"  cries  Trixy,  breathless  and 
triumjjhant,  'if  ///r?/ doesn't  fetch  the  baronet,  you  may  tell 
me  what  will  !  The  pearls  are  sui)erb — liere  they  are. 
Pearls  are  en  regie  for  weddings  only,  but  how  was  poor 
pa  to  know  that?     Arn't  they  lovely?" 

They  lie  in  their  cloudy  luster,  necklet,  earrings,  bracelet. 

"Lovely!"  Edith  repeats;  "lovely  indeed.  Beatrix, 
what  a  fortunate  girl  you  are." 


wu 

dill 
up 
thci 


TRIXY'S  PARTY. 


m 


Tliore  IS  a  touch  of  envy  in  her  tone.  Beatrix  lauglis, 
and  giw's  her  a  third  hug. 

"Why?  l>ecause  1  have  pearls?  Bless  yon!  they're 
nothing.  You'll  have  diamonds  beyond  counting  yourself, 
one  of  those  days.  You'll  marry  ricii,  of  course — brunettes 
are  all  the  style  now,  and  you're  sure  to  look  lovely  by 
g„i      ;ht.     Wliat  are  you  going  to  wear  to-night?" 

:''n  like  flora  Mcl'limsey,"  Edith  laughs;  "I  have 
ii  '  ..,,g  to  wear.  There  is  a  white  Swiss  muslin  in  my 
trunk,  but  't  will  look  w'ofully  rustic  and  dowdy,  I'm  afraid, 
in  your  gorgeous  drawing-t-ooms." 

'•  .Vonsense  !  Plain  Swiss  is  always  in  taste  for  gi'ls  of 
cigl'tecn.  I  wore  it  greatly  my  first  season.  T)o  you  know 
I  feci  awfully  old,  Edith — twenty-one  to-nighi  I  tnusi  do 
something  toward  settling  before  the  year  ends.  Let  us  see 
the  white  Swiss.  Now  there  is  a  lovely  amber  tissue  I  have 
— it  isn't  my  color.  1  never  wore  it  but  once>  and  it  would 
suit  you  exactly.  Lucy,  my  inaid,  is  a  perfect  dress-maker, 
and  could  alter  it  to  fit  you  easily  before —  Now,  Edith  ! 
you're  not  angry  ?  " 

J'or  the  color  has  risen  suddenly  all  over  Edith's  proud, 
pale  face. 

"  You  hav;;  .rude  a  mistake.  Miss  Stuart,  that  is  all — 
meant  kind  .-,  i  a  'i  sure.  If  my  white  muslin  is  admissible, 
1  will  weii  .'  not,  I  can  keep  to  my  room.     r)Ut  neither 

now,  nor  m      .■   fu    re  time,  can  1  accej)! — charity." 

Trixy  gives  .■  1  ilc  shriek  at  the  word,  and  inflicts  a  fourth 
hug  on  Edith,  l'k  is  the  soul  of  easy  good-nature  herself, 
and  ready  to  take  anything  and  everything  that  is  offered 
her,  from  a  husband  to  a  bouciuet. 

"  Bless  the  child  I  "  ^'  exclaims.  "  Charity  !  As  if  any 
one  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing.  It's  just  like  me,  how- 
over,  to  make  a  mess  of  it.  1  mean  well,  but  somehow  I 
always  do  make  a  mess  of  it.  And  mv  pioplietic  soul  tells 
uie,  the  case  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron  will  be  no  excei)tion  to 
the  rest 

The  I'u"  wears  on.  Edith  drives  down  town,  shopjiing 
with  Mad  ,3  'nii  Afademoiselle  Stuart;  she  returns,  and 
dines  instate  with  the  fiimily.  The  big,  brown  house  is  lit 
up  from  basement  to  attic,  and  presently  they  all  adjourn  to 
their  rooms  to  dress. 


138 


TRIXY'S  PARTY. 


"  Don't  ask  me  to  appear  while  you  are  receiving  your 
guests,"  Edith  says.  "  I'll  step  in  unobserved,  when  every- 
body has  come." 

She  decline.  aU  offers  of  assistance,  and  dresses  herself. 
It  is  a  siinj)le  .    '  rely — the  crisp  white  nnihiin,  out  of 

which  the  pol'she..  ilders  rise;  a  little  gold  chain  and 

cross,  once  her  mo  .'r's  ;  earrings  and  biai:elet  of  gold 
and  coral,  also  once  her  mother's  ;  and  her  rich,  abundant, 
blackish-brown  hair,  gathered  back  in  a  graceful  way  peculiar 
to  herself.  She  looks  very  pretty,  and  she  knows  it.  Pres- 
ently sails  in  Miss  Stuart,  resi)lendent  in  the  pink  silk  and 
pearls,  the  "  court  train  "  trailing  two  or  three  yards  behinil 
her,  her  light  hair  "  done  up  "  in  a  pyramid  wonderful  to 
behold,  and  loaded  with  camelias. 

"  How  do  I  look,  Dithy  ?  This  strawberry-ice  jjink  is 
awfully  becoming  to  me,  isn't  it?  And  you — why,  you 
look  lovely — lovely  I  I'd  no  idea  you  made  up  so  hand- 
somely. Ah  !  wc  blondes  have  no  chance  by  gaslight,  against 
you  brunettes." 

She  sweeps  downstairs  in  her  rose-colored  splendor,  and 
Edith  is  alone.  She  sits  by  the  open  window,  and  looks  out 
at  the  night  life  of  the  great  city.  Carnage  after  carriage 
roll  up  to  the  door,  and  somehow,  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
life,  and  brightness,  and  bustle,  a  strange  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness and  isolation  comes  over  her.  Is  it  the  old  chronic 
discontent  cro[)iiing  up  again?  If  it  were  only  not  im- 
proper for  Charley  to  come  up  here  and  sit  beside  her, 
and  smoke,  in  the  sweet  spring  dusk,  and  be  sarcastic  as 
usual,  what  a  comfort  it  would  be  just  now!  Somehow 
— "how  it  comes  let  doctors  tell" — that  restless  familiar  of 
hers  is  laid  when  he  is  by  her  side — never  lonely,  never  dis- 
contented then.  As  she  thinks  this,  innocently  enough, 
despite  all  h  -r  worldly  wisdom,  there  is  a  tap  at  the  door, 
and  Lucy,  the  maid,  comes  smilingly  in,  holding  an  exquisite 
boiupiet,  all  ])iiik  and  white  roses,  in  her  hand. 

*'  Mr.  Charles'  com])liments,  please,  miss,  and  he's  waiting 
for  you  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  when  you're  ready,  miss, 
for  tlie  ball  room." 

She  starts  and  colors  with  pleasure. 

"Thank  you,  J.ucy!"  she  says,  taking  the  bouquet. 
"  Tell  Mr.  Stuart  I  will  be  down  in  u  monient." 


TRIXY'S  PARTY. 


139 


The  p;ii"l  leaves  the  room. 

Wiih  a  smile  on  her  face  it  is  just  as  well  "  Mr.  Charles" 
ilofs  not  see,  she  stands  looking  at  her  roses  ;  then  she 
buries  her  face,  almost  as  bright,  in  their  dewy  sweet- 
ness. 

'•Dear,  thoughtful  Charley!"  she  whisj^ers  gratefully. 
"What  would  ever  have  become  of  nie  but  for  him  ?" 

She  selecis  one  or  two  bits  of  scarlet  blossom  and  green 
spray,  and  artistically  twists  them  in  the  rich  vi'aves  of  her 
hair.  She  takes  one  last  glance  at  her  own  pretty  image 
in  the  mirror,  sees  that  fan,  lacehandkercliief,  and  adorn- 
ment generally,  are  in  their  places,  and  then  trips  away  and 
goes  down. 

In  elegant  evening  costume,  looking  unutterably  hand- 
some and  well-dressed,  Mr.  Charles  Stuart  stands  at  the  foot 
of  the  grand  stairway,  wailing.  He  looks  at  her  as  she 
stands  in  the  full  glare  of  the  gasaliers. 

"White  nnislin,  gold  and  coral,  pink  roses,  and  no  chig- 
non. My  dear  Mi>s  Darrell,  taking  you  as  a  whole,  I  think 
1  have  seen  worse-looking  youi'g  women  in  my  life." 

lie  draws  her  hand  through  his  arm,  wiih  this  enthusiastic 
remark,  and  Julilli  fin<ls  herself  in  a  blaze  of  light  and  a 
ciowd  of  brilliantly  dressed  people.  Three  long  drawing- 
rooms  are  thrown  o{)^:n,  en  suilc  \  beyond  is  the  b-.H-room, 
with  its  wa.xed  floors  and  invi.->ible  musicians.  Flowers,  gas- 
light, jewels,  handsouK;  women,  and  gallant  men  are  every-  . 
where  ;  the  band  is  crashing  out  a  jnilse  tingling  waltz,  and 
still  I'.dilh  hears  and  sees,  and  moves  in  a  dream. 

"  Come,"  Charley  says.  His  arm  is  around  her  waist, 
and  they  whirl  away  among  the  waltzers.  Edith  waltzes 
well,  so  does  Charley.  She  feels  as  though  she  were  float- 
ing on  air,  not  on  earth.  Then  it  is  over,  and  she  is  being 
introduced  to  people,  to  resplendent  young  ladies  and  al- 
most equally  resplendent  young  gentlemen.  Charley 
resii^ns  her  to  one  of  these  latter,  and  she  glid  's  through  a 
mn/urka.  That  too  ends,  and  as  it  j^rows  rather  warm,  her 
|>artner  leads  her  away  to  a  cool  music-room,  whence  pro- 
ceed melodious  sounds.  It  is  Trixy  at  the  piano,  informing 
a  select  audience  in  shrill  sojirano,  and  in  the  character  of 
the  "Queen  of  the  May,"  that  "She  had  been  wild  and 
wayward,  but  she  w.i.i  not  wayward  pou'T     Edith's  partner 


I40 


"  UNDER    THE   GASLIGHT:' 


finds  her  a  scat  and  volunteers  to  go  for  an  ice.  As  she 
sits  fanning  herself,  hhe  sees  Charley  ai)proaching  with  a 
young  uKui  of  about  his  own  age,  taiier  than  he  is— fairer, 
witii  a  look  altogether  somehow  of  a  different  nationality. 
lie  has  large  blue  eyes,  very  fair  hair,  aud  the  blondest  of 
coniplexi'ins.     Instinctively  she  knows  who  it  is. 

"Ah,  Ktlith,"  Charley  says,  "here  you  are.  I  have  been 
scarciniig  for  you.  Miss  Darrell,  allow  me  to  present  to  you 
Sir  Victor  Catheron." 


CHAPTER    IV. 


UNDER   THE   GASLIGHT. 


|WO  darkly  solemn  eyes  look  up  into  Sir  Victor 
Catheron's  fiice.  Both  bow.  Both  murmur  ti)e 
pianissimo  inibecility  requisite  on  such  occasions, 
and  Edith  Darrell  is  acquainted  with  a  baronet. 

With  a  baronet  !  Only  yesterday,  as  it  were,  she  was 
darning  hose,  and  ironing  linen  at  home,  going  about  the 
dismal  house  slipshod  and  slatternly.  Now  she  is  in  the 
midst  of  a  brilliant  ball,  diamonds  sparkling  around  Iier,  and 
an  English  baronet  of  fabulous  wealth  and  ancestry  asking 
her  for  the  fxvor  of  tiie  next  wait/. !  Something  ridiculous 
and  absurd  about  it  all,  struck  her ;  she  felt  an  idiotic  desire 
to  laugh  aloud.  It  was  all  unreal,  all  a  dream.  She  would 
awake  presently,  to  hear  her  step-mother's  shrill  call  to 
come  and  help  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  howls  of  tlie 
juvenile  Darrells  down  the  passage.  A  familiar  voice  rouses 
her. 

"  You'll  not  forget,  I  hope,  Edith,"  Charley  is  saying,  "  tliat 
next  redowa  is  mine.  At  present  I  am  g'Mug  to  meander 
through  the  lancers  with  Mrs.  Featherbrain." 

He  takes  her  tal;lets,  coolly  writes  his  name,  smiles, 
shows  his  white  teeth,  says  "  Au  revoir,"  and  is  gone.  She 
and  the  baronet  are  alone. 

What  .shall  she  say  to  him  ?  She  feels  a  whimsical  sort  of 
trepidation  as  she  llutters  her  fan.  As  yet  the  small-talk  of 
society,  is  Sanscrit,  to  this  young  lady  from  Sandypoint.     Sir 


"  UNDER    THE    GASLIGHTS 


141 


Victor  leans  lightly  against  tlie  arm  of  her  chair,  and  lool^s 
down  upon  her  as  she  sits,  with  ihished  checks,  half  smiHng 
lips,  and  long  black  lashes  drooping.  He  is  thiiiliiiig 
\vh;it  a  wonderfully  bright  and  charming  face  it  is — for  a 
brunette. 

For  Sir  Victor  Cathcron  does  not  fancy  brunettes.  I  le 
lias  his  ideal,  and  sees  in  her  the  future  Lady  C.'atiieron.  \\\ 
far-off  Cheshire  there  is  a  certain  l.ady  Ciwendoline  ;  she  is 
an  earl's  daughter,  the  owner  of  two  soft  bkie  eyes,  a 
complexion  of  pink  and  snow,  a  soft,  trained  voice  and 
fcatliery  halo  of  amber  hair.  Lady  (IwendoHne  is  his  ideal 
of  f.iir,  sweet  womanhood,  turning  coldly  from  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  to  hold  out  her  arms  to  one  happy  possessor. 
The  vision  of  Lady  Gwendoline  as  he  saw  her  last,  the  morn- 
ing sunshine  searching  her  fair  English  face  and  finding  no 
flaw  in  it,  rises  for  a  second  before  him — why,  he  does  not 
know.  Then  a  triumphal  burst  of  music  crashes  out,  and 
lie  is  looking  down  once  more  upon  Edith  Darrell,  in  her 
white  dress  and  coral  ornaments,  her  dark  hair  and  pink 
roses. 

"  You  seem  quite  like  an  old  acquaintance.  Miss  Darrell," 
he;  says,  in  his  slow,  pleasant,  English  accented  voice  ;  "  our 
mutual  friend,  the  orinci.,  lias  told  me  about  his  adventure  in 
the  snow,  and  your  heroism." 

"  The  prince  ?"  she  repeats,  interrogatively,  and  Sir  Vic- 
tor laughs. 

"  Ah  !  you  don't  know.  They  call  him  the  prince  here — 
Prince  Charlie.  I  don't  know  why,  I'm  sure,  unless  it  be 
j  that  his  name  is  Charles  Edward  Stuart,  and  that  he  is  the 
prince  of  good  fellows.  You  have  no  idea  how  delighted  I 
am  that  he — that  the  whole  family  are  going  across  with  us 
in  May.  You  accompany  them.  1  understand,  Miss  Dar- 
Irell?" 

"  .\s  companion  and  interpreter  on  the  continent,"  Miss 
jDarrt'll  answers,  looking  up  at  him  very  steadily.      "Yes." 

"And  yon  will  like  the  continent,  I  know,"  Sir  Victor 
50CS  on.  "  You  will  like  Paris,  of  course.  All  Americans  go 
Ito  Paris.  You  will  meet  scores  of  your  countrymen  in  every 
continental  city." 

'  I  am  not  sure  that  that  is  an  advantage,"  responds  the 
I'Oung  lady  coolly.     "  About  my  liking  it,  there  can  be  no 


142 


"  UNDER    THE   GASLIGHT.'' 


question.  It  has  been  the  dream  of  my  life — a  dream  I 
thought  a?  likely  to  be  realized  a  month  ago,  as  that  I  slioiild 
take  a  trip  to  the  moon.  For  yon,  Sir  Victor,  I  suppose 
every  nook  and  corner  of  Europe,  is  as  familiar  to  you,  as  your 
own  native  Cheshire  ?  ' 

The  brown  brilliant  e\'es  look  up  at  him  frankly.  She  is 
at  her  ease  at  last,  and  Sir  Victor  thinks  again,  what  beauti- 
ful eyes,  brown  eyes  are.  For  a  dark  young  jjcrson,  she  is 
really  the  most  attractive  young  person,  he  has  ever  met, 

"Cheshire,"  he  repeats  with  a  smile,  "how  well  you  know 
my  birihulace.  No,  not  my  birthplace  exacily,  for  I  was  born 
in  Ix)iidon.  I'm  a  cockrey,  Miss  Darrell.  JJefore  you  all  go 
abroad,  you  are  to  come  and  spend  a  week  or  two  down  in 
my  sunny  Cheshire  ;  both  my  aunt  and  I  insist  upon  it.  You 
don't  know  how  many  kindnesses — how  many  pleasant  days 
and  nights  we  owe  to  our  friends,  the  Stuarts.  It  shall  be 
our  endeavor  when  we  reach  England  to  repay  them  in  kind. 
May  I  ask.  Miss  Darrell,  if  you  have  met  my  aunt  ?  " 

"  No,"  Edidi  replies,  lluttering  a  little  again.  "  I  have  not 
even  seen  Lady  Ilelena  as  yet." 

"Then  allow  me  tlie  pleasure  of  making  you  acquainted. 
I  think  you  will  like  her.  I  am  very  sure  she  will  like 
you." 

The  color  deepens  on  Edith's  dark  cheek  ;  she  arises  and 
takes  his  proffered  ann.  How  gracefully  deferential  and 
courteous  he  is.  It  is  all  custom,  no  doubt,  and  means 
nothing,  but  it  is  wonderfully  pleasant  and  flattering.  For 
the  moment  it  seems  as  though  he  were  conscious  of  no 
Other  young  lady  in  the  scheme  of  creation  than  Miss  Dar- 
rell— a  tlirting  way  a  few  young  men  cultivate. 

They  walk  slowly  down  the  long  brilliant  rooms,  and 
many  eyes  turn  and  look  after  them.  F^very  one  knows 
the  cxtremly  bl<)nde  young  baronet — the  dark  damsel  on  his 
arm  is  as  yet  a  stranger  to  most  of  them.  "  Dused  pretty 
girl,  you  know,"  is  the  unaniu)ous  verdict  of  masculine  New 
York;  "who  is  she?"  "Who  is  that  young  lady  in  the 
dowdy  white  muslin  and  old  fashioned  corals  ?  "  asks  fem- 
inine New  York,  and  both  stare  as  they  receive  the  same 
whispered  reply:  "A  i)i)()r  relation — a  country  cousin,  or 
something  of  the  sort,  going  to  Europe  with  them  as  com- 
panion to  Beatrix." 


"  UNDER    THE    GASLIGHT:' 


143 


Edith  sees  the  looks,  and  the  color  deejiens  to  carnation 
in  her  face.  Her  brown  eyes  gleam,  she  lifts  her  head  with 
iKiugiity  grace,  and  (lashes  baci<  almost  defiance  at  tliese  in- 
solent starers.  She  feels  what  it  is  they  are  saying  of  her, 
and  Sir  Victor's  high  breil  couitesy  and  deference,  go  to  the 
very  depths  of  her  heart  by  contrast.  She  likes  him  ;  he  in- 
terests her  already;  tiiere  is  something  in  his  face,  she  can 
liardly  tell  what, — a  sort  of  sombre  shadow  that  underlies  all 
his  smiling  society  manner.  In  repose  and  solitude,  the 
prevailing  expression  of  that  face  will  be  melanclioly,  and 
yet  why?  Surely  at  three-and-twenty,  life  can  have  shown 
nothing  but  her  sunshine  and  roses,  to  this  curled  darling  of 
fortune. 

•  A  stout,  elderly  lady,  in  gray  moire  and  chantilly  lace,  sits 
on  a  sort  of  a  throne  of  honor,  beside  Mrs.  Stuart,  and  a 
for„'ij;n  gentleman,  from  Washington,  all  ribbons  and  orders. 
Tu  this  stout,  elderly  lady,  as  Lady  Helena  Powyss,  his  aunt, 
Sir  V^ictor  i)resents  Miss  Darrell. 

The  kindly  eyes  of  the  Paiglish  lady  turn  upon  the  dark, 
handsome  face  of  tb.e  American  girl ;  the  pleasant  voice  says 
a  {^iw  pleasant  words.  Miss  Darrell  bows  gracefully,  lin- 
gers a  few  moments,  is  presented  to  the  ribbon-and-starred 
foreigner,  and  learns  he  is  Russian  Ambassador  at  Washing- 
ton. Then  the  music  of  their  dance  strikes  up,  both  smil- 
ingly make  their  .adieux,  and  hasten  to  the  ball-room. 

Up  and  down  the  long  waxed  room,  in  and  out  with  gor- 
geous young  New  York,  in  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  the  air 
heavy  with  perfume,  the  matchless  Goimod  waltz  music  crash- 
ing over  all,  on  the  arm  of  a  baronet — worth,  how  much  did 
Trixy  say  ?  thirty  or  forty  thousand  a  year  ? — around  her  slim 
white  muslin  waist.  Edith  is  in  her  dream  still — she  does 
not  want  to  wake — Trixy  whirls  by,  tlushed  and  breathless, 
and  nods  latighingly  as  she  disappears.  Charley,  looking 
calm  and  languid  even  in  the  dance,  Hits  past,  clas])ing  gay 
little  Mrs.  Featherbrain,  and  gives  her  a  patronizing  nod. 
.'\nd  luiith's  thought  is — "  If  this  could  only  go  on  forever  I  " 
But  the  golden  moments  of  life  tly — the  leaden  oneis  only 
lag —we  all  know  Uiat  to  our  cost.     The  waltz  ends. 

■'A  most  delicious  waltz,"  says  Sir  Victor  gayly.  "I  thought 
(Imcing  bored  me — I  find  I  like  it.  How  well  you  waltz, 
Mi.;s  Darrell,  like  a  Parisienne — but  all   .\inerican  young 


144 


"  UNDER    THE    GASLIGHT.'' 


ladies  arc  like  Frenchwomen.  Take  this  seat,  and  let  me 
fetch  you  a  water  ice." 

He  leads  her  to  a  chair  and  departs.  As  she  sits  there, 
half  smiling  and  llutli-rinn  her  fan,  looking  ver)'  lovely,  Ciiar- 
ley  saunters  up  with  his  late  i)artner.  "  If  your  royal  high- 
ness will  permit,"  cries  Mrs.  Featherbrain,  laughing  and 
panting,  "I  will  take  a  seat.  How  cool  and  comfortable 
you  look,  Miss  Darrell.  May  I  ask  what  you  have  done 
with  Sir  Victor  ?  " 

"  Sir  Victor  left  me  here,  and  told  me  he  would  go  for  a 
water  ice.  If  I  look  cool,  it  is  more  than  1  feel — the  ther- 
mometer of  this  room  must  stand  at  a  hundred  in  the 
shade." 

"  A  water  ice,"  repeats  Mrs.  Featherbrain  with  a  sigh  ; 
"  just  what  I  have  been  longing  for,  this  past  half  hour. 
C'harley,  1  heard  yoii  say  something  about  bringing  me  one, 
some  time  ago,  didn't  1  ?  But  1  know  of  old  what  you're 
promises  are  worth.  You  know  the  adage,  Miss  Darrell — 
never  more  true  than  in  this  instance,  '  Put  not  your  trust 
in  princes.'  " 

Miss  Darrell's  dark,  disdainful  eyes  look  full  at  the  frivo- 
lous young  matron.  Mrs.  Featherbrain  and  Mr.  Stuart  have 
been  devoted  to  each  other  all  the  evening. 

"  I  know  tlie  adage,"  she  answers  cooly,  "  but  I  confess  I 
don't  see  tiie  ai)plication." 

"What!  don't  you  know  Charley's  sobriquet  of  Prince 
Charley  ?  Why  he  has  been  the  Prince  ever  since  he  was 
five  years  old,  i)artly  on  account  of  his  absurd  name,  partly 
because  of  iiis  absurd  grand  seigneur  airs.  I  think  it  fits — 
don't  you  ?  " 

"And  if  I  were  Prince,"  Charley  interposes,  before  Miss 
Darrell  can  answer,  "  my  first  royal  act  would  be  to  order 
Featherbrain  to  the  deepest  dungeon  beneath  the  castle 
moat,  and  make  his  charming  relict  Princess  consort,  as  she 
has  long,  alas  !  b'^en  cjuecn  of  my  aftcciions  !  " 

He  lays  his  white-kiddeil  hand  on  the  region  of  his  heart, 
and  bows  profoundly.  Mrs.  Featherbrain's  shrill,  rather 
silly  laugh,  rings  out — she  hits  hiin  a  blow  with  her  perfumed 
fan. 

"You  precocious  little  boy!"  she  says,  "as  if  children 
of  your  age  knew  what  their  affections  meant.     Miss  Darrell, 


•'  UNDER    THE   GASLIGHTS 


145 


ifore  Miss 
c  to  order 
tl\e  castle 
ort,  as  she 

his  heart, 
•ill,  rather 
r  perfumed 


you'll  not  credit  it  I'm  sure,  but  this  juvenile  cousin  of  yours 
— Charley,  you  told  me,  Miss  Darrell,  was  your  cousin — 
was  my  first  love — actually — my  first !  " 

"  And  she  jilted  me  in  cold  blood  for  Featherbrain.  Since 
then  I've  been  a  blighted  being — hiding,  like  the  Spartan 
cliap  in  the  story,  the  fox  that  preys  on  my  vitals,  and  going 
through  life  with  the  hollow  mockery  of  a  smile   on   my 

lll)S." 

Again  Mrs.  Featherbrain's  foolish  little  laugh  peals  out. 
She  leans  back,  almost  against  him,  looks  up,  and  half  whis- 
pers something  very  daring  in  French. 

Edith  turns  away  disgusted,  gleams  of  disdainful  scorn  in 
her  shining  hazel  eyes.  What  a  little  painted  giggling  idiot 
the  woman  is — what  fools  most  young  men  are  !  What  busi- 
ness have  married  women  llirting,  and  how  much  more  sensi- 
ble and  agreeable  Englishmen  are  than  Americans. 

"  Miss  Darrell  looks  sick  of  our  frivolity,"  Mrs.  Feather- 
brain gayly  exclaims  ;  "  the  wickedness  of  New  York  and 
the  falsity  of  mankind,  are  new  to  her  as  yet.  You  saved 
Charley's  life,  didn't  you,  my  love  ?  Trixy  told  me  all  about 
it, — and  remained  with  him  all  night  in  tiie  snow,  at  the  risk 
of  your  own  life.  Quite  a  romance,  upon  my  word.  Now 
why  not  end  it,  like  ail  romances  of  the  kind,  in  a  love  match 
and  a  marriage  ?  " 

Her  eyes  glitter  maliciously  and  jealously,  even  while  she 
laughs.  If  it  is  in  the  shallow  heart  of  this  j^rettily-painted, 
prettily-powdered  woman,  to  care  for  any  human  being,  she 
has  cared  for  Charley  Stuart. 

"  Mrs.  Featherbrain  ! "  Edith  exclaims,  in  haughty  sur- 
prise, half  rising. 

"My  dear,  don't  be  angry — you  might  do  worse,  though 
iiow,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  I  suggested  it,  because 
it  is  the  usual  ending  of  such  things  in  novels,  and  on  the 
stage — that  is  all." 

"And  as  if  I  could  fall  in  love  with  any  one  now,"  Mr. 
Stuart  murmurs,  plaintively.  "  Such  a  suggestion  from 
}*ou,  Laura,  is  adding  insult  to  injury." 

"  Here  co;ncs  our  baronet,"  Mrs.  Featherbrain  exclaims, 
"  bearing  a  water  ice  in  his  own  aristocratic  hand.  Rather 
handsome,  isn't  he? — only  I  detest  very  fair  men.     What  a 


146 


••  UNDER   THE   GASLIGHT:' 


pity,  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  diir  New  York  girls,  he  should 
be  engaged  in  England." 

"Ah!  but  he  isn't  engaged — I  happen  to  know,"  said 
Charley;  "so  you  see  what  comes  of  marrying  in  haste, 
Mrs.  Featherbrain.  If  you  had  only  waiteil  another  year 
now,  instead  of  throwing  me  over  for  old  Featherbrain,  it 
might  have  been  for  a  baronet — for  of  course  there  isn't  a 
girl  in  New  York  could  stand  the  ghost  of  a  chance  beside 
you" 

"A  most  delicate  compliment,"  Edith  says,  her  scornful 
lip  curling  ;  "  one  hardly  knows  which  to  admire  most — the 
refined  tact  of  Mr.  Stuart's  flatteries,  or  the  matronly  dig- 
nity with  which  Mrs.  Featherbrain  repels  them  ! " 

She  turns  her  white  shoulder  deliberately  upon  them  both, 
and  welcomes  Sir  Victor  with  her  brightest  smile. 

"And  for  a  rtstic  lassie,  fresh  from  the  fields  and  the  dai- 
sies, it  isn't  so  bid,"  is  Mrs.  Featherbrain's  cool  criticism. 

"  And  I  hope,  despite  Sir  Victor's  aristocratic  attentions, 
Miss  Darrell,  you'U  not  forget  you're  engaged  to  me  for  the 
redowa,"  Charley  finds  a  chance  to  murmur,  sotio  voce,  in 
her  ear,  as  he  and  his  flirtee  move  on  : 

"You  see  the  poor  child's  jealous,  Charley,"  is  the 
Featherbrain's  last  remark — "  a  victim  to  the  green-eyed 
monster  in  his  most  virulent  form.  You  really  should  be 
careful,  my  dear  boy,  how  you  use  the  charms  a  beneficent 
Providence  has  showered  upon  you.  As  you  are  strong,  be 
merciful,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

The  hours  go  on.  Edith  eats  her  water  ice,  and  talks 
very  animatedly  to  her  baronet.  Balls  (he  has  had  a  surfeit 
of  them,  poor  fellow  !)  mostly  bore  him — to-night  he  is 
really  interested.  The  Americans  are  an  interesting  people, 
he  thinks  that  must  be  why.  Then  the  redowa  begins,  and 
Charley  returns  and  carries  her  off.  With  him  she  is  coldly 
silent,  her  eyes  are  averted,  her  words  are  few.  He  smiles 
to  himself,  and  asks  her  this  pleasant  question  : 

"If  she  dosen't  think  Laura  P'eatherbrain  the  prettiest 
and  best-dressed  lady  in  the  room  ?  " 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Featherbrain  is  well-named,"  Miss  Darrell 
answers,  her  dark  eyes  flashing.  "I  understand  Mr. 
Featherbrain  is  lying  sick  at  home.  You  introduced  me  to 
her — while  I  live  in  thjs  house,  Mr.  Stuart,  you  will  be  kind 


"  UNDER   THE   GASLIGHT:' 


H7 


enough    to    introduce    me    to    no    more — Mrs.    Feather- 
brains ! " 

She  brings  out  the  obnoxious  name  with  stinging  scorn, 
and  a  look  toward  the  lady  bearing  it  sharper  than  daggers. 
There  is  a  curious  smile  in  Charley's  eyes — his  lips  are 
grave. 

"  Are  you  angry,  Edith  ?  Do  you  know — of  course  you 
do,  though — that  it  becomes  you  to  be  angry  ?  My  charm- 
ing cousin,  I  never  knew  until  to-night  how  really  handsome 
yo    were." 

disengages  herself  with  sudden  abruptness  from  his 
< 

••  1  am  tired  of  dancing,"  she  says.  *'  I  detest  redowas. 
And  be  kind  enough  to  keep  your  odious  point-blank  com- 
l)limcnts  for  the  '  prettiest  and  best-dressed  lady  in  the 
room.'     /don't  a|)preciate  them  !" 

Is  it  jealousy  ?  Charley  wonders,  complarently.  He 
sits  down  beside  her,  and  tries  to  coax  her  into  good  hu- 
mor, but  she  is  not  to  be  coaxed.  In  ten  minutes  another 
partner  comes  up  and  claims  her,  and  she  goes.  The 
pretty,  dark  girl  in  white,  is  greatly  admired,  and  has  no 
lack  of  partners.  For  Mr.  Stuart  he  dances  no  more — he 
leans  against  a  piller,  pulls  his  mustache,  and  looks  jjlacid 
and  handsome.  He  isn't  devoted  to  dancing,  as  a  rule  he 
objects  to  it  on  principle,  as  so  much  piiysical  exertion  for 
very  little  result ;  he  has  only  fatigued  himself  to-night  as  a 
matter  of  abstract  duty.  He  stands  and  watches  Edith 
dance — this  country  girl  has  the  lithe,  willowy  grace  of  a 
Bayadere,  and  she  is  laughing  now,  and  looking  very  bright 
and  animated.  It  dawns  upon  him,  that  she  is  by  all  odds 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  house,  and  that  slowly  but  surely,  for 
the  hundred  and-tiftieth  time  in  his  life,  he  is  falling  in 
love. 

"But  I  might  have  known  it,"  Mr.  Stuart  thinks,  gravely; 
"brown  beauties  always  ^/V/ play  the  dickens  with  me.  I 
thought  that  at  five-and-twenty  I  had  outgrown  all  that  sort 
of  youthful  rubbish,  and  here  I  am  on  the  brink  of  the  pit 
again.  Falling  in  love  in  the  present,  involves  matrimony  in 
the  future,  and  matrimony  has  been  the  horror  of  my  life 
since  I  was  four  years  old.  And  then  the  governor  wouldn't 
hear  of  it.     I'm  to  be  handed  over  to  the  tirst  '  daughter  of 


148 


OLD    COPIES   OF   THE   ''COURIERS 


a  hundred  earls '  across  in  England,  who  is  willing  to  ex- 
change a  tarnished  British  coronet  for  a  Yankee  million  or 
two  of  dollars," 

It  is  Trixy  who  is  dancing  with  the  baronet  now — Trixy 
who  descends  to  supper  on  the  baronet's  arm.  She  dances 
with  iinn  once  again  after  siqiper  ;  tiien  he  returns  to  Edith. 

So  the  hours  go  on,  and  tiie  April  morning  is  growing 
gray.  Once,  Edith  fnuls  herself  seated  beside  genial  Lady 
Helena,  who  talks  to  her  in  a  motherly  way,  that  takes  all 
her  heart  captive  at  once.  Sir  Victor  leans  over  his  aunt's 
chair,  listening  with  a  smile,  and  not  saying  much  himself. 
His  aunt's  eyes  follow  him  everywhere,  iier  voice  takes  a 
deeper  tenderness  when  she  speaks  to  him.  It  is  easy  to 
see  she  loves  him  with  almost  more  than  a  mother':,  love. 

A  little  longer  and  it  is  all  over.  Carriage  after  carriage 
rolls  away — Sir  Victor  and  Lady  Helena  shake  hands  with 
this  pretty,  well-bred  Miss  Darrell,  and  go  too.  She  sees 
Charley  linger  to  the  last  moment,  by  fascinating  Mrs. 
Featherbrain,  whispering  the  usual  inanity,  in  her  pretty 
pink  ear.  He  leads  her  to  her  carriage,  when  it  stops  the 
way,  and  he  and  the  millionnaire's  wife  vanish  in  tlie  outer 
darkness. 

*•  Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand,  and  h)ud  on  the  stone, 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away," 

Edith  hums  as  she  toils  up  to  her  pretty  room.  Trixy's 
grand  ticKl  night  is  over — Edith's  hrst  ball  has  come  to  an 
end,  and  the  fust  night  of  her  new  liie. 


CHAPTER   V. 

OLD   COPIES    or   THE    "  COUUIKR." 

jlWO  waltzes,"  said  Trix,  counting  on  her  fingers ; 
"  that's  two  ;  one  cracovienne,  that's  three  ;  les 
lanciers,  that's  four ;  one  galo[),  that's  hve  ;  and 
one  polka  quadrille,  that's  six.     Six  dances,  round 

and  square,  with  Sir  Victor  Catheron.     Edith,"  cried  Miss 

Stuart,  triumphantly,  '■'do  you  hear  that  ?  " 


OLD  COPIES  OF   THE  *' COURIERS 


149 


"  Yes,  Trixy,  I  hear,"  said  Edith,  dreamily. 

"  You  don't  look  as  if  you  did,  or  if  you  do  hear,  you  don't 
heed.  Six  dances — two  more  I  am  certain,  than  lie  daiicM 
with  any  otiicr  girl  in  the  house.  That  looks  ])romising, 
now  doesn't  it  ?  Edith,  the  long  and  short  of  the  matter  is 
this  :  I  shall  break  my  heart  and  die  if  he  doesn't  make  me 
Lady  Cathoron." 

A  faint,  half-absent  smile — no  other  reply  from  Miss 
Darrell.  In  the  handsome  reception-room  of  the  .Sluart 
mansion,  tiie  two  girls  sat.  It  was  half-past  three  in  the 
afternoon,  of  iho  day  succeeding  the  ball.  \x\  the  luxuriant 
depths  of  a  puffy  armchair,  reclined  Edith  Darrell,  as  intich 
at  home,  as  though  jiuffy  chairs  and  luxuriant  reclining,  had 
ever  b(;cn  her  normal  state.  The  crimson  satin  cushions, 
contrasted  brilliantly  with  her  dark  eyes,  hair  and  compl'cx- 
ion.  Her  black  ^/k  dress  was  new,  and  fitted  well,  and  she 
had  lit  it  up  with  a  knot  of  scarlet  tangled  in  some  whils 
lace  at  the  throat.  Altogether  she  made  a  very  efifcciive 
picture. 

In  another  iMiffy  rocking-chair  near,  sat  Trixy,  her 
chestnut  hair  crtpc  to  her  eyel)rows  and  falling  in  a  crinkJinj; 
shower  down  to  her  waist.  Her  voluminous  drapeiies  bal- 
loon over  the  carpet  for  the  space  of  a  cou])le  of  yards  ori 
either  side,  and  she  looked  from  top  to  toe  the  "  New  York- 
iest  of  New  York  girls."  They  made  a  very  nice  contra'-t  if 
you  had  an  eye  for  effect — blonde  and  brunette,  dash  and 
dignity,  style  and  classic  simplicity,  gorgeous  furniture,  rnd 
outside  the  gray,  fast-drifting  Ajjril  afternoon,  the  raw,  east- 
erly Ai>ril  wind. 

"Of  course,"  pursued  Miss  Stuart,  going  on  with  the  web 
of  rose-colored  knitting  in  her  lap,  "being  the  daughter  of 
the  house,  and  considering  the  occasion,  and  everytliing.  I 
suppose  a  few  more  dances  than  usual  were  expected  of  him. 
Still,  I  dfltit  believe  he  would  have  asked  me  six  times  if — 
Editli  !  how  often  did  he  dance  with  you  ?  " 

"  How  often  did — I  beg  your  pardon,  Beatrix  ;  I  didn't 
catch  wiiat  jou  said." 

"I  see  you  didn't.  You're  half-asleep,  arn't  you?  A 
penny  for  your  thoughts,  Dithy." 

"  They're  not  worth  a  farthing,"  lulilh  answered,  con- 
templuously.     "I  chanced  just  ihcu  lo  be  lUinking  uf  Mr&. 


150 


OLD   COPIES  OF   THE  "-COURIER:' 


What  was  it  you  asked — something  about 
often  "Sir  Victor  danced  with  you   last 
Four  times,  I  think — yes,  four  times. 


FeatherLrain. 
Sir  Victor  ?  " 

"  I  asked  how 
night." 

"  I  really  forget. 
VViiy  ?  " 

"  He  danced  six  with  me,  and  I'm  sure  he  didn't  dance 
more  than  half  as  often  with  any  one  else.  Mamma  tliinks 
he  means  something,  and  he  took  me  to  supjier,  and  told 
me  about  England.  We  had  quite  a  long  conversation  ;  in 
fact,  Edith,  1  fairly  grow  crazy  with  delight  at  the  thought 
of  one  day  being  '  My  lady.'  " 

"Why  think  of  it,  then,  since  it  sets  you  crazy?"  Edith 
suggested,  with  cool  indifference.  "  I  daresay  you've  heard 
the  proverb,  Trix,  about  counting  your  chickens  before 
they're  hatched.  However,  in  this  case  I  don't  really 
see  why  you  should  desi)air.  You're  his  equal  in  every 
way,  and  Sir  Victor  is  Ins  own  master,  and  can  do  as  he 
likes." 

"  Ah,  I  don't  know  !  "  Trix  answered  with  a  despondent 
sigh,  "  he's  a  baronet,  and  these  B^nglish  people  go  so  much 
for  birth  and  blood.  Now  you  know  we've  neither.  It's 
all  very  wel'  for  pa  to  name  Charley  after  a  jirince.  and  si)eli 
Stuart,  with  a  u  instead  of  an  cw,  like  everybody  else,  and 
say  ii  descended  from  the  royal  family  of  Scotland — 
there's  something  more  wanted  than  that.  He's  sent  to 
London,  or  somewhere,  for  the  fan)ily  coat-ol-arms.  You 
may  laugh,  Edith,  but  he  has,  and  we're  to  seal  our  letters 
with  a  griffin  rampant,  or  a  catamount  couchant,  or  some 
other  beast  of  prey.  Still  the  gritlin  rampant,  doesn't  alter 
the  fact,  that  pa  began  life  sweeping  out  a  grocery,  or  that 
he  was  in  the  tallow  business,  until  the  breaking  out  of 
the  rebellion.  Lady  Helena  and  Sir  Victor  are  everything 
that's  nice,  and  civil,  and  courteous,  but  when  it  comes  to 
marrying,  you  know,  that's  quite  another  matter.  Isn't  he 
just  sweet,  though,  Edith?" 

"  \V'ho?  Sir  Victor?  Poor  fellow,  what  has  he  ever  said 
or  done  to  you,  Trix,  to  deserve  such  an  epithet  as  that  ?  No, 
I  am  glad  to  say  he  didn't  strike  me  as  being  '  sweet' — con- 
trariwise, I  thought  him  particularly  sensible  and  pleasant." 

"  Well,  can't  a  person  be  sweet  and  sensible  loo  ?  "  Trix 


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ISI 


answered,  impatiently.  "Did  you  notice  his  eyes  ?  Such 
an  expression  of  weariness  and  sadness,  and — now  what  are 
you  laughing  at.  I  declare,  you're  as  stupid  as  Charley.  I 
can't  express  a  single  opinion  that  he  doesn't  laugh  at.  Call 
nio  sentimental  if  you  like,  but  I  say  again  he  has  the  most 
melancholy  expression  I  ever  looked  at.  Do  you  know, 
Dithy,  I  love  melancholy  men." 

"  Do  you  ?"  said  Edith,  still  laughing.  *'  My  dear  lacka- 
daisical Trixy  !  I  nnist  confess  myself,  1  prefer  'jolly  '  people. 
Still  you're  not  altogether  wrong  about  our  youthful  baronet, 
ho  docs  look  a  prey  at  times  to  green  and  yellow  melancholy. 
You  don't  sui)pose  he  has  been  crossed  in  love,  do  you  ? 
Are  baronets — rich  baronets — ever  crossed  in  love  I  wonder. 
I  lis  large,  rather  light  blue  eyes,  look  at  one  sometimes  as 
though  to  say : 

**  '  I  have  a  secret  sorrow  here, 
A  grief  I'll  ne'er  impart, 
It  heaves  no  sigh,  it  sheds  no  tear, 
But  it  consumes  the  'art  ! '  " 

Miss  Darrell  was  an  actress  by  nature — she  repeated  this 
lachrymose  verse,  in  a  sepulchral  tone  of  voice. 

"That's  it,  you  may  depend,  'J'rixy.  The  ])Oor  young 
gentleman's  a  prey  to  unrequited  affection.  What  are  you 
shaking  your  head  so  vehemently  at  ?  " 

"it  isn't  that,"  said  Trix,  looking  solemn  and  mysterious, 
"  it's  worse  !  " 

"  Worse  I  Dear  me.  I  didn't  think  anything  could  be 
worse.     What  is  it  then  ?  " 

"  Murder  /  " 

It  was  Trixy's  turn  to  be  sepulchral.  Miss  Darrell  opened 
her  big  brown  eyes.  Miss  Stuarts  charnel-house  tone  was 
really  bhjod  curdling. 

"My  dearest  Trix  !  Murder  !  Good  gracious,  you  can't 
mean  to  say  we've  been  dancing  all  night  with  a  murderer? 
Who  has  he  killed  ?  " 

"  Edith,  don't  be  an  idiot  I  Did  I  say  he  killed  any  one  ? 
No,  it  isn't  that — it's  a  murder  that  was  committed  when  he 
was  a  baby." 

"  When  he  was  a  baby  1 "  Miss  Darrell  repeats,  in  dense 
bewilderment. 


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"Yes,  his  moMier  was  murdered,  poor  thing.  It  was  a 
most  shocking  :i(Lvir,  and  as  interesting  as  any  novel  you 
ever  read,"  said  Trixy,  with  the  greatest  rcHsli.  "  Alindercd 
in  cold  blood  as  she  slept,  and  they  don't  know  to  this  day 
who  did  it." 

Edith's  C3'cs  v/ere  still  very  wide  open. 

"  His  mother — whon  he  was  a  baby  !  Tell  us  about 
it,  Trix,  One  naturally  takes  an  interest  in  the  family  mur- 
ders of  one's  future  second  cousin-in-law." 

"Well,"  began  Miss  Stuart,  still  with  the  utmost  relish, 
"  you  see  his  father — another  Sir  Victor — made  a  low  mar- 
riage— married  the  daughter  of  a  common  sort  of  person,  in 
trade.  Now  there's  a  coincidence  to  begin  with.  /';«  the 
daughter  of  a  common  sort  of  person  in  trade — at  least  1 
was ! " 

"  It  is  to  be  hoped  the  coincidence  will  not  be  followed  out 
after  the  nuptial  knot,"  answered  Kdith,  gravely,  "  it  wouKl 
be  unpleasant  for  you  to  be  murdered,  Trix,  and  i)hmge  us 
all  into  the  depth  of  des|)air  and  bombazine.  Proceed, 
as  they  say  on  the  stage,  '  Your  tale  interests  me.'  " 

"  He  was  engaged — the  other  Sir  Victor,  I  mean — to  his 
cousin,  a  Miss  Inez  Catheron — pretty  name,  isn't  it? — and, 
it  seems,  was  afraid  of  her.  She  was  a  brunette,  dark  and 
fierce,  with  black  eyes  and  a  temper  to  match." 

A  bow  of  acknowledgment  from  Miss  Darrell. 

"As  it  turned  out,  he  had  good  reaM>n  to  I  m  afraid  of  her. 
He  was  a  year  and  a  half  married,  and  the  b.iliy — this  pres- 
ent Sir  Victor — was  two  or  three  months  old,  when  the  mar- 
riage was  niade  public,  and  wife  and  child  brought  home. 
There  must  have  been  an  awful  row,  you  know,  at  Cathe- 
ron Royals,  and  one  evening,  about  a  month  after  her 
arrival,  they  found  the  poor  thing  aslee[)  in  the  nursery,  and 
st.ibbed  to  the  heart." 

'•  Was  she  asleep  after  she  was  stabbed  or  before  ?  " 

"  Bother.  There  was  an  imjuest,  and  it  turned  out  that 
she  and  Miss  Catheron  had  had  a  treuv-ndous  quarrel,  tli  t 
very  evening.  Sir  Victor  was  away  when  it  ha|)i)ened,  and 
he  just  went  stark,  staring  mad  the  lirst  thing,  when  he  hi-  nd 
it.  Miss  CatluMon  was  arrested  on  suspicion,  'i'licn  it 
a|)pearcd  that  she  had  a  brother,  and  that  this  brollu  ;  was 
an  awful  scamp,  and  that  he  claimed  to  have  been  married 


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to  I^ady  Catheron  before  she  married  Sir  Victor,  and  that  he 
had  liad  a  row  with  her,  that  same  day  too.  It  was  a  dread- 
fully mixed  up  affair — all  that  seemed  clear,  was  that  Lady 
Catheron  had  been  murdered  by  somebody,  and  that  Juaii 
— yes,  Juan  Catheron — had  run  away,  and  when  wanted, 
was  not  to  be  found." 

"It  a])|)ears  to  have  been  a  strictly  family  affair  from  first 
to  last — that,  at  least,  was  a  consolation.  What  did  they  do 
to  Miss  Inez  Catheron?" 

"  Put  her  in  jMison  to  stand  her  trial  for  murder.  She 
never  stood  it,  however — she  made  her  escape,  and  never 
was  heard  of,  from  that  day  to  this.  Isn't  it  tragical,  and 
isn't  it  dreadful  for  Sir  Victor — his  mother  murdered,  his 
father  crazy,  or  dead,  ages  ago  for  wiiat  1  know,  and  his 
relations  tried  for  their  lives?" 

"  Poor  Sir  Victor  !  Dreadful  indeed.  But  where  in  the 
world,  Trixy,  (['n\  you  find  all  this  out?  Has  he  been  injur- 
ing the  family  history  so  soon  into  yotir  sympathetic  ear  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not  ;  that's  the  curious  part  of  the  story. 
You  know  Mrs.  I'"eathcrbrain  ?  " 

•'  I'm  happy  to  say,"  retorted  Miss  Darrell,  "I  know  very 
little  about  her,  and  intend  to  know  less." 

"You  do  know  her,  however.  Well,  Mrs.  Featherbrain 
has  a  father." 

"  Poor  old  gentleman  ! "  says  Miss  Darrell,  compassion- 
ately. 

"Old  Hampson — that's  his  name.  Ilampson  is  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  from  Cheshire,  and  knew  the  present  Sir  Vic- 
tor's grandfather.  He  gets  the  Cheshire  papers  ever  since 
he  left,  and,  of  course,  took  an  interest  in  ail  tliis.  He  told 
Mrs.  Featherbrain — and  what  do  you  think  ? — Mrs.  Feather- 
brain actually  asked  l,a(ly  Helena." 

"It  is  precisely  the  sort  of  thing  Mrs.  Featherbrain  would 
be  likely  to  do.  '  Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread.' 
How  copious  are  my  quotations  this  afternoon.  What  did 
Lady  Helena  say  ?  " 

"  Gave  her  a  look — a  lady  who  was  present  told  n5e — 
such  a  look.  She  turned  dead  white  for  a  minute,  then  she 
spoke  :  '  I  never  di.scuss  family  matters  with  jierfect  stran- 
gers.' Those  were  her  words — '■perfect  strant^ers:  '  I 
consider  your  question  impertinent,  madame,  and  decline  to 


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answer  it.'  Then  she  turned  her  back  upon  Mrs.  Feather- 
brain ;  and  shouldn't  I  Hke  to  have  seen  Mrs.  Feather- 
brain's face.  Since  then,  she  just  bows  frigidly  to  her,  no 
more." 

"  Little  imbecile !  Trixy,  I  should  like  to  see  those 
papers." 

"  So  you  can — I  have  them.  Charley  got  them  from 
Laura  Featherbrain.  What  could  not  Charley  get  from 
Laura  Featherbrain  I  wonder  ?  "  adds  Trix,  sarcastically. 

Edith's  color  rose,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  tatting  between 
her  fingers. 

"  Your  brother  and  the  lady  are  old  lovers  then  ?  So  I 
inferred  from  her  conversation  last  night." 

"I  don't  know  about  their  being  lovers  exactly.  Charley 
has  that  ridiculous  flirting  manner,  young  men  think  it  their 
duty  to  cultivate,  and  it  certainly  icas  a  strong  case  of  spoons 
— excuse  the  slang.  Pa  would  never  have  listened  to  it, 
though — he  wants  birth  and  blood  too,  and  old  Hampson's 
a  pork  merchant.  Then  Phineas  Featherbrain  came  along, 
sixty  years  of  age,  and  a  |)etroleuni  i)rince.  Of  course, 
there  was  a  gorgeous  wedding — New  York  rang  with  it.  I 
don't  see  that  the  marriage  makes  much  difterence  in  Char- 
ley and  Laura's  flirtation,  though.  Just  wait  a  minute 
and  I'll  go  and  get  the  papers — I  haven't  read  it  all 
myself." 

Miss  Stuart  swept,  stately  and  tall,  from  the  room,  return- 
ing in  a  few  moments  with  some  half-dozen  old,  yellow 
newspapers. 

"  Here  you  are,  sir,"  she  cries,  in  shrill  newsboy  sing- 
song ;  "the  full,  true  and  jiarticular  account  of  the  tragedy 
at  Catheron  Royals.  Sounds  like  the  title  of  a  sensation 
novel,  doesn't  it?  Here's  No.  i  for  you — I've  got  on  as 
far  as  No.  4." 

Miss  Darrell  throws  aside  her  work  and  becomes  absorbed 
in  the  Chesholm  Courier  of  twenty-three  years  back.  Silence 
fell — the  moments  wore  on — the  girls  become  intensely 
interested,  so  interested  that  when  the  door  was  thrown  open 
and  "  Sir  Victor  Catheron  "  announced,  both  sprang  to  their 
feet,  conscience-stricken  with  all  their  guilt,  red  in  their 
faces. 

He  advanced,  hat  in  hand,  a  smile  on  his  face.     He  was 


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beside  Trix  first.  She  stood,  the  paper  still  clutched  in  her 
hand,  her  cheeks  redder  than  the  crimson  velvet  carpet. 
His  astonished  eyes  fell  upon  it — he  who  ran  might  read — the 
Chcsholm  Courier  in  big,  black  letters,  and  in  staring  capi- 
tals, the  "Tradgedy  of  Catheron  Royals." 

The  smile  faded  from  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  lips,  the  faint 
color,  walking  in  the  chill  wind  had  brought,  died  out  of 
his  face.  He  turned  of  that  dead  waxen  whiteness,  fair 
peo])le  do  turn — then  he  lifted  his  e)  s  and  looked  Miss 
Stuart  full  in  the  face. 

"  May  I  ask  where  you  got  this  paper  ?  "  he  asked,  very 
quietly. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry !  "  burst  out  Trixy.  "  I'm  awfully 
sorry,  but  I — I  didn't  know — I  mean,  I  didn't  mean — oh, 
Sir  Victor,  forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt  your  feelings.  I  never 
meant  you  to  see  this." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  said,  gently ;  "  it  is  necessarily 
very  painful  to  me.  Permit  me  to  ask  again,  how  you 
chanced  to  come  by  these  papers  ?  " 

"  They  were  lent  us  by — by  a  lady  here ;  her  father  is 
from  Cheshire,  and  always  gets  the  papers.  Indeed  I  am 
very,  very  sorry.  I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for 
worlds." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  apologize — you  are  in  no  way  to 
blame.  I  trust  I  find  you  and  Miss  Darrell  entirely  recov- 
ered from  the  fatigue  of  last  night.  The  most  charming 
party  of  the  season — that  is  the  unanimous  verdict,  and  I 
for  one  indorse  it." 

He  took  a  seat,  the  color  slowly  returning  to  his  face. 
As  he  spoke,  two  eyes  met  his,  dark,  sweet,  compassionate, 
but  Kdith  Darrell  did  not  speak  a  word. 

The  obnoxious  papers  were  swept  out  of  sight — Miss  Stu- 
art made  desperate  efforts  at  ease  of  maimer,  and  morning 
call  chitchat,  but  every  effort  foil  flat.  The  spell  of  the 
(Jhesholm  Courier  wVi^  on  them  all,  and  was  not  to  be  shaken 
off.     It  was  a  relief  when  the  baronet  rose  to  go. 

"  Lady  Helena  desires  best  regards  to  you  both — she 
has  fallen  quite  in  love  Avith  you,  Miss  Darrell.  As  it  is  a 
'  Nilsson  night '  at  the  academy,  I  suppose  we  will  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  there  ?" 

"  You  certainly  will,"  answered  Trix.     "  Edith  has  never 


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heard  Nilsson  yet,  poor  child.  Remember  us  to  I^ady 
Helena,  Sir  Victor.     Good  afternoon." 

Then  he  was  gone — and  Miss  Stuart  looked  at  Miss  Dar- 
rell,  solemnly  and  long. 

"  There  goes  my  last  hope  !  Oh,  why,  why  did  I  fetch 
down  those  wretched  papers.  All  my  ambitious  dreams  of 
being  a  baro — netle  are  knocked  in  the  head  now.  He'll 
never  be  able  to  bear  the  sight  of  me  again." 

"  I  don't  see  that,"  Edith  responded ;  "  if  a  murder  is 
committed,  the  world  is  pretty  sure  to  know  of  it — its  some- 
thing not  to  be  ignored.  How  deeply  he  seems  to  feel  it 
too — in  spite  of  his  rank  and  wealth  1  pity  him,  Trixy." 

"Pity  him  as  much  as  you  like,  so  that  it  is  not  the  pity 
akin  to  love.  I  don't  want  you  for  a  rival,  Edie — besides  I 
have  other  views  for  you." 

"  Indeed !  The  post  of  confidential  maid  when  you  are 
Lady  Catheron  ?  " 

"Something  better — the  post  of  confidential  sister. 
There  !  You  needn't  blush,  I  saw  how  the  land  lay  from 
the  first,  and  Charley  isn't  a  bad  fellow  in  spile  of  his  lazi- 
ness. The  door  bell  again.  Nothing  but  callers  now  un- 
til dark." 

All  Miss  Stuart's  masculine  friends  came  dropping  in  succes- 
sively, to  institute  the  necessary  inquiries  as  to  the  state  of  lier 
health,  af'er  eight  hours'  steady  dancing  the  ])receding  night. 
Edith's  unsophisticated  head  ached  with  it  all,  and  her 
tongue  grew  paralyzed  with  the  platitudes  of  society.  The 
gas  was  lit,  and  the  dressing-bell  ringing,  before  the  last  coat- 
tail  disappeared- 

As  the  young  ladies,  yawning  drearily  in  each  other's 
faces,  turned  to  go  up  to  their  rooms,  a  servant  entered, 
bearing  two  pasteboard  boxes. 

"  With  Sir  N'ictor  t'atheron's  compliments,  Miss  Beatrix, 
and  brought  by  his  man." 

Each  box  was  labelled  with  the  owner's  name.  Trix 
opened  hers  widi  eager  fingers.  A  lovely  l;ouqiiet  of  white 
roses,  calla  lilies,  and  jasmine,  lay  vvitnin.  Edith  opened 
hers — another  bouquet:  of  white  and  scarlet  camellias. 

"  For  the  opera,"  cried  Trix,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  How 
good  of  hira — how  generous — how  forgiving!  After  the 
papers  and  all !     Sir  Victor's  prince,  or  ought  to  be." 


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"Don't  gush,  Tiixy,"  Edith  said,  "it  grows  tiresome. 
Why  did  he  send  you  all  white,  I  wonder  ?  As  emblematic 
of  your  spotless  innocence  and  that  sort  of  thing?  And  do 
/  bear  any  affinity  to  '■  La  Dame  aiix  Camellias  V  I  think 
you  may  still  hoi>e,  Trix — if  there  be  truth  in  the  language 
of  flowers." 

Three  hours  later — fashionably  late,  of  course — the  Stuart 
party  swept  in  state  into  their  box.  Mrs.  Stuart,  JVIiss  Stuart 
Mr.  Stuart,  junior,  and  Miss  Darrell.  Miss  Stuartdressed  lor 
some  after  "  reception"  in  silvery  blue  silk,  pearl  ornaments 
in  her  hair,  and  a  virginal  white  bouquet  in  her  hand.  Miss 
Darrell  in  the  white  muslin  of  last  night,  a  scarlet  ojjcra 
cloak,  and  a  bouquet  of  white  and  scarlet  camellias.  Char- 
ley lounging  in  the  background,  looking  as  usual,  handsome 
of  face,  elegant  of  attire,  and  calmly  and  upliftedly  uncon- 
scious of  both. 

The  sweet  singer  was  on  the  stage.  Fxlith  Darrell  leaned 
forward,  forgetting  everything  in  a  trance  of  delight.  It 
seemed  as  though  her  very  soul  were  carried  away  in  the 
spell  of  that  enchanting  voice.  A  score  of  "  double  barrels  " 
were  turned  to  their  box — Beatrix  Stuart  was  an  old  story 
— but  who  was  the  dark  beauty  ?  As  she  sat,  leaning  for- 
ward, breathless,  trance-bound,  the  singer  vanished,  the  cur- 
tain fell. 

"  Oh  !"  it  was  a  deep  drawn  sigh  of  pure  delight.  She 
drew  back,  lifted  her  iiiii)assioned  eyes,  and  met  the  smiling 
ones  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron. 

"  You  did  not  know  I  was  here,"  he  said.  "  You  were  so 
enraptured  I  would  not  speak.  Once  it  would  have  enrapt- 
ured me  too,  but  1  am  afraid  my  rapturous  days  are  past." 

"  Sir  Victor  Catheron  speaks  as  though  he  were  an  octo- 
genarian. I  have  heard  it  is  '  good  form '  to  outlive  at 
twenty,  every  earthly  emotion.  Mr.  Stuart  yonder  prides 
himself  on  having  accomplished  the  feat.  1  may  be  stupid, 
but  I  confess  being  blase,  doesn't  strike  me  in  the  light  of 
an  advantage  ?  " 

"  But  \{  blase  be  your  normal  state  ?  I  don't  think  I  ever 
tried  to  cultivate  the  vavitas  Tanitatcm  style  of  thing,  but  if 
it  will  come  ?  Our  audience  are  enthusiastic  enough — see  1 
They  have  made  her  come  back." 

She  came  back,  and  held  out  both  hands  to  the  audience, 


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and  the  pretty  gesture,  and  the  charming  smile,  redoubled 
the  ajiplause.  'Then  silence  fell,  and  softly  and  sweetly  over 
that  silence,  floated  the  tender,  pathetic  words  of  "  Way 
down  upon  the  Swanee  River."  You  might  have  heard  a 
pin  drop.  Even  Sir  Victor  looked  moved.  For  Edith,  she 
sat  scarcely  breathing — quivering  with  ecstasy.  As  the  last 
note  was  sung,  as  the  fair  songster  kissed  hands  and  van- 
ished, as  the  house  arose  from  its  spell,  and  re-rang  with  en- 
thusiasm, Edith  turned  again  to  the  young  baronet,  the 
brown  eyes  luminous  with  tears,  the  lips  quivering.  He 
bent  above  her,  saying  something,  he  could  hardly  have  told 
what,  himself — carried  away  for  once  in  his  life,  by  the 
witchery  of  two  dark  eyes. 

Mr.  Charles  Stuart,  standing  in  the  background,  beheld  it 
all. 

"  Hard  hit,"  he  murmured  to  his  mustache,  but  his  face, 
as  he  gave  his  mother  his  arm,  and  led  her  forth,  told  noth- 
ing. 

An  old  adorer  escorted  Miss  Stuart.  Miss  Darrell  and 
her  camellias,  came  last,  on  the  arm  of  the  baronet. 

That  night,  two  brown  eyes,  haunted  Sir  Victor  Catheron's 
slumbers — two  brown  eyes  sparkling  through  unshed  tears 
— two  red  lips  trembling  like  the  lii)s  of  a  child. 

For  the  owner  of  the  eyes  and  lips,  she  put  the  camellias, 
carefully  in  water,  and  far  away  in  the  small  hours  went  to 
bed  and  to  sleep.  And  sleeping  she  dreamed,  that  all 
dressed  in  scarlet,  and  wearing  a  crown  of  scarlet  camellias, 
she  was  standing  up  to  be  married  to  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
with  Mr.  Charley  Stuart  as  officiating  clergyman,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  the  murdered  lady  of  Trixy's  story  came 
stalking  in,  and  whirled  her  screaming  away  in  her  ghostly 
arms. 

Two  much  excitement,  champagne,  and  lobster  salad  had 
engendered  the  vision  no  doubt,  but  it  certainly  spoiled  Miss 
Darrell's  beauty  sleep  that  night. 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


159 


CHAPTER  VI. 


ONE   MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


HE  pleasant  days  went  on — April  went  out — May 
came  in.  On  the  tenth  of  May,  the  Stuart  family, 
Sir  Victor  Catheron,  and  Lady  Helena  Powyss  were 
to  sail  from  New  York  for  Liverpool. 

To  Edith,  fresh  from  the  twilight  of  her  country  life,  these 
days  and  nights  had  been  one  bewildering  round  of  excite- 
ment and  delight.  Opera,  theatre,  dinner  and  evening  par- 
ties, shopping,  driving,  calling,  receiving — all  that  goes  to 
make  tlie  round  of  that  sort  of  life,  had  been  run.  Her  slen- 
der wardrobe  had  been  replenished,  tiie  white  Swiss  had 
been  reinforced  by  half-a-dozen  ghstening  silks  ;  the  corals, 
by  a  set  of  rubies  and  fine  gold.  Mr.  Stuart  might  be  pom- 
pous and  pretentious,  but  he  wasn't  stingy,  and  he  had  in- 
sisted upon  it  for  his  own  credit.  And  half  a-dozen  "  spandy 
new"  silks,  fresh  from  Stewart's  counters,  with  the  pristine 
glitter  of  their  bloom  yet  upon  them,  were  very  different 
from  one  half-worn  amber  tissue  of  Trixy's.  Miss  Darrell 
took  the  dresses  and  the  rubies,  and  looked  uncommonly 
handsome  in  both. 

On  the  last  night  but  one,  of  their  stay  in  New  York,  Mrs. 
Featherbrain  gave  a  last  "  At  Home,"  a  sort  of  "  P.  P.  C." 
])arty,  Trixy  called  it.  Miss  Darrell  was  invited,  and  said 
nothing  at  the  time,  unless  tossing  the  card  of  invitation 
contemptuously  out  of  the  window  can  be  called  saying  some- 
thing ;  but  at  the  last  monient  she  declined  to  go. 

"  My  head  is  whirling  now,  from  a  surfeit  of  parties,"  she 
said  to  Miss  Stuart.  "Aunt  Chatty  is  going  to  stay  at 
home,  and  so  shall  L  I  don't  like  your  Mrs.  Featherbrain 
— that's  the  truth — and  I'm  not  fashionable  enough  yet  to 
sham  friendship  with  women  I  hate.  Besides,  Trix  dear, 
you  know  you  were  a  little — ^just  a  little — ^jealous  of  me,  the 
other  night  at  Roosevelt's.  Sir  Victor  danced  with  me  once 
oftener  than  he  did  with  you.  Now,  you  dear  old  love,  PU 
let  you  have  a  whole  baronet  to  yourself,  for  this  night,  and 
who  knows  what  may  happen  before  morning  ?  " 

Miss  Edith  Darrell  was  one  of  those  young  persons — 


i6o 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


happily  rare — who,  when  they  take  a  strong  antipathy,  are 
true  to  it,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  their  own  i)leasure.  In  her 
secret  soul,  she  was  jealous  of  Mrs.  Featherbrain.  If  she 
and  Charley  carried  on  their  imbecile  tlirlation,  at  least  it 
would  not  be  under  her  disgusted  eyes. 

Miss  Stuart  departed — not  tiie  lilies  of  the  field — not  Solo- 
mon in  all  his  glory — not  the  Queen  of  Sheba  herself,  ever 
half  so  niagniticent.  Charley  went  with  her,  a  placid 
martyr  to  brotherly  duty.  And  Edith  went  down  to  the 
family  sitting-room  where  Aunt  Chatty  (Aunt  Chatty  by 
request)  sat  dozing  in  her  after-dinner  chair. 

"We  are  going  to  have  an  'At  home'  all  to  our  two 
selves  to-night,  auntie,"  Edith  said,  kissing  her  thin  check  ; 
*'  and  I  am  going  to  sing  you  to  sleep,  by  way  of  begin- 
ning." 

She  was  fond  of  Aunt  Chatty — a  nieek  soul,  born  to  be 
tyraniii/.od  over,  and  tyrannized  over,  from  her  very  cradle. 
One  of  those  large  women,  who  obey  their  small  husbands 
in  fear  and  trembling,  who  believe  everything  they  are  told, 
who  "bless  the  squire  and  his  relations,  and  live  contented 
with  their  stations;"  who  are  bullied  by  their  friends,  by 
their  children,  by  their  servants,  and  who  die  meekly  somo 
day,  and  go  to  Heaven. 

Edith  opened  the  piano  and  began  to  play.  She  was 
looking  very  handsome  to-night,  in  green  silk  and  black 
lace,  one  half-shattered  rose  in  her  hair.  She  looked  hand- 
some— at  least  so  the  young  man  who  entered  unobserved, 
and  stood  looking  at  her,  evidently  thought. 

She  had  not  heard  him  enter,  but  presently  some  mes- 
meric rapport  between  them,  told  her  he  was  near.  She 
turned  her  head  and  saw  him.  Aunt  Chatty  caught 
sight  of  him,  in  her  semi-sleeping  state,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. 

"  Dear  me,  Charley,"  his  mother  said,  '■'■  you  here  ?  I 
thought  you  went  to  Mrs.  Featherbrain's?" 

"  So  I  did,"  replied  Charley.  "  I  went — I  saw — I  re- 
turned— and  here  I  am,  if  you  and  Dithy  will  have  me  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening." 

"  Edith  and  I  were  very  well  off  without  you.  We 
had  i)eace,  and  that  is  more  than  we  generally  have  when 
you   and  she  come   together.    You   shall  be  allowed  to 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


i6i 


stay   only  on   one  condition,  and   that   is   that   you   don't 
quarrel." 

"/ (juirrol  ?"  Charley  said,  lifiing  his  eyebrows  to  the 
middle  ol'  his  forehead.  "  My  dear  mother,  your  mental 
blindness  on  many  points,  is  really  deplorable.  It's  all 
Kdilli's  fault — all  ;  one  of  the  few  fixed  principles  of  my 
life,  is  never  to  (\uarrcl  with  anybody.  It  upsets  a  man's 
digestion,  and  is  fatij^uing  in  the  extreme.  Our  fust  meet- 
ing," continued  Mr.  Stuart,  stretching  himself  out  leisurely 
on  a  sofa,  "  at  wliich,  Kdith  fell  in  love  with  me  at  sight,  .vas 
a  row.  Well,  if  it  wasn't  a  row,  it  was  an  unpleasantness  of 
some  sort.  You  can't  deny.  Miss  Darrell,  there  was  a  cool- 
ness bcfwccii  us.  Didn't  we  pass  the  night  in  a  snow-drift? 
Since  tlr.'i,  v. 'cry  otl.or  meeting  has  been  a  succession  of 
rows.  In  justice  to  myself,  and  the  angelic  sweetness  of  my 
own  disi)osilion,  I  nnist  repeat,  tiie  beginning,  middle,  and 
ending  of  each,  lies  with  her.  She  will  bully,  and  1  never 
coulil  bland  being  bullied — 1  always  knock  under.  I'mt  I 
warn  her — a  day  of  retribution  is  at  hand.  In  self-defence 
I  mean  to  marry  her,  and  then,  base  miscreant,  beware  ! 
The  trodden  worm  will  turn,  and  plunge  the  iron  into  her 
own  soul.  May  I  ask  what  you  are  laugiiing  at,  Miss 
Darrell?" 

"  A  slight  confusion  of  metaphor,  Charley — nothing  more. 
What  have  you  done  with  Trix  ?  " 

"Trix  is  all  right  in  the  matronly  charge  of  Mrs.  Feather- 
brain, and  engaged  ten  deep  to  the  baronet.  By  the  bye, 
the  baronet  was  inquiring  for  you,  with  a  degree  of  warmth 
and  solicitude,  as  unwelcome  as  it  was  uncalled  for.  A 
baronet  for  a  brother-in-law  is  all  very  well — a  baronet  for  a 
rival  is  not  well  at  all.  Now,  my  dear  child,  try  to  overcome 
the  general  nastiness  of  your  cranky  disposition,  for  once, 
and  make  yourself  agreeable.  I  knew  you  were  ])ining  on 
the  stem  for  me  at  home,  and  so  I  threw  over  the  last  crush 
of  the  season,  made  Mrs.  Featherbrain  my  enemy  for  life, 
and  here  I  am.     Sing  us  something." 

•  Miss  Darrell  turned  to  the  piano  with  a  frown,  but  her 
eyes  were  smiling,  and  in  her  secret  heart  she  was  well-con- 
tent. Charley  was  beside  her.  Charley  had  given  up  the 
ball  and  Mrs.  Featherbrain  for  her.  It  was  of  no  use  deny- 
ing it,  she  was  fond  of  Charley.     Of  late  it  had  dawned 


l62 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


dimly  and  deliciously  upon  lr.;r  that  Sir  Victor  Catheron  was 
growing  very  attentive.  If  so  wildly  improbable  a  thing 
could  occur,  as  Sir  Victor's  falling  in  love  witli  her,  she  was 
ready  at  any  moment  to  be  Iiis  wife  ;  but  for  the  love  which 
alone  makes  marriage  sweet  and  holy,  which  neither  time, 
nor  trouble,  nor  absence,  can  change — that  love  she  felt  for 
her  cousin  Charle)',  and  no  other  mortal  man. 

It  was  a  very  jileasant  evening — ho7u  pleasant,  Edith  did 
not  care  to  own,  even  to  herself.  Aunt  Chatty  dozed  sweetly 
in  her  arm-chair,  she  in  her  place  at  the  ])iano,  and  Charley 
taking  comfort  on  his  sofa,  and  calmly  and  dis!)assionately 
finding  fault  with  her  music.  That  those  two  could  spend 
an  evening,  an  hour,  together,  without  disagreeing,  was 
simply  an  utter  impossibility.  Edith  invariably  lost  her 
temi)er — nothing  earthly  ever  disturbed  Charley's.  Pres- 
ently, in  anger  and  disgust.  Miss  Darrell  jumped  up 
from  the  piano-stool,  and  protested  she  would  play  no 
more. 

"  To  be  told  I  sing  Kathleen  Mavourneen  flat,  and  that 
the  way  I  hold  my  elbows  when  I  play  Thalberg's  '  Home,' 
is  frightful  to  behold,  I  will  twt  stand !  Like  all  critics,  you 
find  it  easier  to  point  out  one's  faults,  than  to  do  better- 
It's  the  very  last  time,  sir,  I'll  ever  play  a  note  for 
you  ! " 

But,  somehow,  after  a  skirmish  at  euchre,  at  which  she 
was  ignobly  beaten,  and,  I  must  say,  shamefully  cheated,  she 
was  back  at  the  piano,  and  it  was  the  clock  striking  twelve 
that  made  her  start  at  last. 

"  Twelve  !  Goodness  me.  I  didn't  think  it  was  half-past 
ten  ! "  Mr.  Stuart  smiled,  and  stroked  his  mustache  with 
calm  complacency.  "  Aunt  Chatty,  wake  up  !  It's  mid- 
night— time  all  good  little  women  were  in  bed." 

"  You  need  not  hurry  yourself  on  that  account,  Dithy," 
Charley  suggests,  "if  the  rule  only  applies  to  good  little 
women." 

Miss  Darrell  replies  with  a  glance  of  scorn,  and  \vakes  up 
Mrs.  Stuart. 

"You  were  sleeping  so  nicely  I  thought  it  a  j^ity  to  wake 
you  sooner.  Come,  auntie  dear,  we'll  go  upstairs  together. 
You  know  we  have  a  hard  day's  work  before  us  to-morrow. 
Good-night,  Mr.  Stuart." 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


163 


up 


"  Good-nigbt,  my  love,"  Mr.  Stuart  responded,  making  no 
attempt  to  stir.  Edith  linked  her  strong,  young  arm  i;j  that 
of  her  bloepy  aunt  and  led  her  upstairs.  lie  lay  and 
watched  the  slim  green  figure,  the  beautiful  bright  face,  a^  it 
disai)i)eared  in  a  mellow  flood  of  gaslight.  The  clear,  sweet 
voice  came  floating  saucily  back  : 

"  And  Charley  he's  my  darling, 
My  darling^my  (larlini^, 
And  Charley  he's  my  <]arling, 
The  young  Chevalier  1  " 

All  that  was  sauciest,  and  most  coquettish  in  the  girl's 
nature,  came  out  with  Charley.  With  Sir  Victor,  as  'lYixy 
cxjjlained  it,  she  was  "goody"  and  talked  sense. 

Mr.  Stuart  went  back  to  the  ball,  and,  I  regret  to  say, 
made  himself  obnoxious  to  old  Featherbrain,  by  the  uiarked 
empressemcnt  of  his  devotion  to  old  Featherbrain's  wife. 
Edith  listened  to  the  narration  next  day  from  the  li{>5  «>f 
Trix  with  surprise  and  disgust.  Miss  Stuart,  on  lier  own 
account,  was  full  of  trium[ili  and  happiness.  Sir  Victor  hid 
been  most  devoted,  "  most  devoted"  said  Trix.  in  iiahcs, 
"  that  is,  for  him.  He  danced  with  me  very  often,  and  he 
spoke  several  times  of  jw/,  Dithy,  dear.  He  couldn't  un- 
derstand wiiy  yon  absented  yourself  from  tlie  last  party  of 
the  season — no  more  can  I  for  that  matter.  A  person  tinay 
hate  a  person  like  poison — I  often  do  myself — and  yet  go  to 
that  jierson's  parties." 

IJiit  this  was  a  society  maxim  Miss  Da-rell  could  by  no 
means  be  brought  to  understand.  Wheie  shf  iiked  she 
liked,  where  she  hated  she  hated — there  wero  no  half 
measures  for  her. 

The  last  day  came.  At  noon,  with  a  brilliant  Viysiin 
shining,  the  ship  fired  her  flirewell  guns,  and  steamed  away 
for  Merrie  England.  Edith  leaned  over  the  bulwark  and 
watched  the  receding  shore,  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes. 

"Good-by  to  home,"  she  said,  "a  smile  on  her  lip,  a  tear 
in  her  eye."  "  Who  knows  when  and  h(Av  1  may  see  it  again. 
Wlu)  knows  whelher  I  shall  rrw  see  il?" 

Tiie  liiiidieon  !)i'll  rang  ;  everybody — a  wonderful  crowd 
too — flocked  merrily  downstairs  to  the  saloon,  where  two 
long  tables,  bright  witii  crystal  and  flowers,  were  spread. 


l64 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


What  a  delightful  thing  was  an  ocean  voyage,  and  sea-sick- 
ness— bah  ! — merely  an  illusion  of  the  sonscs. 

After  lunch,  Charley  selected  the  sunniest  spot  on  deck 
for  his  resting-place,  and  the  prettiest  girl  on  board,  for  his 
companion,  spread  out  his  railway  rug  at  her  feet,  -pread 
out  himself  thereon,  and  jjrepared  to  be  happy  and  be 
made  love  to.  Trix,  on  the  arm  of  the  baronet,  paraded  the 
deck.  Mrs.  Stuart  and  Lady  Helena  buried  themselves  in 
the  seclusion  of  the  ladies'  cabin,  in  expectation  of  the 
wradi  to  come.  Pxlith  got  a  cam|)-stool  and  a  book,  and  liid 
herself  behind  the  wheel-iiouse  for  a  little  of  private  enjoy- 
ment. But  she  did  not  read  ;  it  was  delight  enough  to  sit 
and  watch  the  old  ocean  smiling,  and  smiling  like  any  other 
coquette,  as  though  it  could  never  be  cruel. 

The  afternoon  wore  on  ;  the  sun  dropped  low,  the  wind 
arose — so  did  the  sea.  And  jiresenlly — staggering  blindly 
on  Sir  Victor's  arm,  pale  as  death,  with  speechless  agony  im- 
printed on  every  feature — Trixy  made  her  appearance  behind 
the  wheel  house. 

"  O  Edith,  1  feel  awfully— awfully  !  I  feel  like  death— 
I  feel—" 

She  wrenched  her  arm  from  the  baronet's,  rushed  wildly 
to  the  side,  and — Edith's  dark,  laughing  eyes  looked  up  into 
the  blue  ones,  that  no  effort  of  Sir  Victor's  could  quite  con- 
trol. The  next  moment  she  was  by  Trixy's  side,  leading 
that  l;m[)  and  pallid  heroine  to  the  regions  below,  whence, 
for  five  mortal  days,  slie  emerged  not,  nor  did  the  eye  of  man 
rest  on  Miss  IJcatrix  Stuart. 

The  Weather  was  line,  but  the  wind  and  sea  ran  tolerably 
high,  and  of  course  everybody  mostly  was  tolerably  sick. 
One  day's  ordeal  siiiHced  for  lulith's  tribute  to  old  Neptune  ; 
after  that,  she  never  felt  a  (jUcdm.  A  great  deal  of  her  lime 
was  s|)ent  in  wailing  upon  Aunt  Chatty  and  '."rix,  both  of 
whom  were  very  far  gone  indeed.  In  the  case  oi  Miss  Stuart, 
the  tortures  of  jealousy  were  added  to  the  tortures  of  sea- 
sickness. Did  Sir  Victor  walk  with  the  young  ladies  on 
deck  ?  Did  he  walk  with  her.,  Edith  ?  Did  he  ever  inquire 
for  herself?  Oh,  it  was  sh  imeful — shameful  that  she  should 
be  kept  prostrate  here,  unable  to  lift  her  head  !  At  this  junc- 
ture, generally,  in  her  excitement,  Trixy  did  lift  it,  and  the 
consequence  was— woe. 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


165 


It  was  full  moon  before  they  reached  mid-ocean.  How 
Edith  enjoyed  it,  no  words  can  tell.  Perhaps  it  was  out  of 
merciful  compassion  to  Trix,  but  she  did  .lot  tell  her  of  the 
long,  brisk  twilight,  mid-day,  and  moonlight  walks  she  and 
tlie  baronet  took  on  deck.  How,  leaning  over  the  bulwarks, 
diey  watched  the  sun  set,  round  and  red,  into  the  sea,  and 
the  silver  sickle  May  moon  rise,  like  another  Aphrodite,~out 
of  the  waves.  She  did  not  tell  her,  how  they  sat  side  by  side 
at  dinner,  how  he  lay  at  her  feet,  and  read  aloud  for  her,  in 
sheltered  sunny  nooks',  how  unconunonly  fri<,ndly  and  con- 
fidential they  became  altogether,  in  these  first  half-dozen  days 
out.  People  grow  intimate  in  two  days  at  sea,  as  they 
would  not  in  two  years  on  land.  Was  it  all  gentlemanly 
courtesy  and  politeness  on  the  baronet's  side  ?  the  girl  some- 
times wondered.  She  could  analyze  her  own  feelings  pretty 
well.  Of  that  fitful,  feverish  passion  called  love,  described 
by  the  country  swain  as  feeling  "hot  and  dry  like — with  a 
pain  in  the  side  like,"  she  felt  no  particle.  There  was  one, 
Mr.  Charles  Stuart,  lying  about  in  jilaces,  looking  serene  and 
sunburnt,  who  saw  it  all  with  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes,  and 
kept  his  c(jncliisions  to  himself.  '■'■  Kisi/ui !"  bethought; 
"the  will  of  Allah  be  done.  What  is  written  is  written. 
Sea-sickness  is  bad  enough,  without  the  green-eyed  monster. 
lOven  Othello,  if  he  had  been  crossing  in  a  Cunard  ship, 
would  have  put  off  the  pillow  performance  until  they  reached 
the  other  side." 

One  cspeciil  afternoon,  Edith  fell  asleep  after  luncheon, 
on  a  sofa,  in  her  own  and  'I'rixy's  cabin,  and  slept  through 
dinner  and  dessert,  and  only  woke  with  the  lighting  of  the 
lamps.  Trix  lay,  pale  and  wretched,  gazing  out  of  the  jwrt- 
liole,  at  the  glory  of  moonlight  on  the  heaving  sea,  as  one 
who  sorrows  without  hope  of  consolation. 

"  I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  f  irty  winks,  Edith,"  she  re- 
marked ;  "  what  a  Rip  Van  Winkle  you  are  !  I'or  my  ixut, 
I've  never  slept  at  all  since  I  cauie  on  board  this  horrid  ship  1 
Now,  where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  To  get  something  to  eat  from  inyfriend  the  stewardess," 
Edith  answered  ;  "  1  see  1  am  too  lite  for  dinner." 

Miss  Darrell  went,  and  got  some  tea  and  toast.  Then 
wrapping  herself  in  a  blanket  shawd,  and  lying  a  coquettish 
red  wool  hood  over  her  hair,  she  ascended  to  the  deck. 


i66 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


It  was  pretty  well  deserted  by  the  ladies — none  the  worse 
for  that,  Edith  thought.  Tlie  full  moon  shono  with  untold 
splendor,  over  the  vast  expanse  of  tossing  sea,  heaving  with 
that  majestic  swell,  that  never  quite  hills  on  tlie  mighty 
Atlantic.  The  gentlemen  filled  the  smoking-room,  the 
"Tabak  Parliament"  was  at  its  iieighi.  She  took  a  camj)- 
stool,  and  made  for  her  favorite  sheltered  s|)ot  beliind 
the  wheel-house.  How  grand  it  was — the  starry  sky,  tlic 
brilliant  white  moon,  the  boundless  ocean — that  long  trail 
of  silvery  radiance  stretching  miles  behind.  An  icy  blast 
swept  over  the  deep,  but,  wiapped  in  her  big  shawl,  Kditli 
could  defy  even  that.  She  forgot  Sir  Victor  and  the  daring 
ambition  of  her  life.  She  sat  absorbed  in  the  beauty  and 
splendor  of  that  moonlight  on  the  sea.  Very  softly,  very 
sweetly,  half  unconsciously,  she  began  singing  "The  Yoimg 
May  Moon,"  when  a  step  behind  made  her  turn  her  head.  It 
was  Sir  Victor  Catheron.  She  awoke  from  her  dream — came 
back  to  earth,  and  was  of  the  world  worldly,  once  more. 
The  smile  that  welcomed  him  was  very  bright.  She  would 
have  blushed  if  she  could  ;  but  it  is  a  disadvantage  of  pale 
brunettes  that  they  don't  blush  easily. 

"  I  heard  singing,  sweet  and  faint,  and  I  give  you  my  word, 
Miss  Darrell,  I  thought  it  migiit  be  the  Lurline,  or  a  str.iy 
mermaid  combing  her  sea-green  locks.  It  is  all  very  beauti- 
ful, of  course,  but  are  you  not  afiaiil  of  taking  cold  ?  " 

"I  never  take  cold,"  Miss  Darrell  answered  ;  "inlluenza 
is  an  unknown  disease.  I  las  the  tobacco  parliament  broken 
up,  that  I  behold  you  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  half  past  eleven — didn't  you  know  it  ? — and  all  the 
lights  are  out." 

"  Good  Heaven  !  "  Edith  cried,  starting  up  aghast ;  "  half- 
past  eleven  I  What  will  Trixy  say  ?  Really,  moon-gazing 
must  be  absorbing  work.     I  had  no  idea  it  was  after  ten." 

"Stay  a  moment.  Miss  Darrell,"  Sir  Victor  interi)osed, 
"  there  is  something  I  would  like  to  say  to  you — something 
1  have  wished  to  spoak  of,  since  we  came  on  board." 

Edith's  heart  gave  one  great  jump — into  her  mouth  it 
seemed.  What  could  such  a  preface  as  this  portend,  save 
one  thing?  The  baronet  spoke  again,  and  Miss  Darrell's 
heart  sunk  down  to  the  very  soles  of  her  buttoned  boots. 

"  It  is  concerning  those  old  papers,  the  ChcsJwlm  Courier. 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


167 


You  understand,  and— and  the  lamentable  tragedy  the^ 
chronicle." 

"Yes?"  said  Miss  Darrell,  shutting  her  lips  tight. 

"  It  is  naturally  a  deeply  painful  subject  to  me.  Twenty- 
three  years  have  passed  ;  I  was  but  an  infant  at  tlie  time, 
yet  if  it  had  occurred  only  a  year  ago,  I  think  I  could  hardly 
feel  it  more  keenly  than  I  do — hardly  suffer  more,  when  1 
speak  of  it." 

"Then  why  speak  of  it?"  was  the  young  lady's  very 
sensible  question.  "/  have  no  claim  to  hear  it,  I  am 
sure." 

"  No,"  the  young  man  responded,  and  even  in  the  moon- 
light she  could  see  his  color  rise,  "  perhaps  not,  and  yet  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  of  it  ever  since.  I  don't  know  why, 
it  is  something  I  can  scarcely  bear  to  think  of  even,  and 
yet  I  feel  a  sort  of  relief  in  speaking  of  it  to  you.  Perhaps 
there  is  'rapport'  between  us — that  we  are  affinities — who 
knows  ? " 

Who  indeed !  Miss  Darrell's  heart  came  up  from  her 
boots,  to  its  proper  place,  and  stayed  there. 

"It  was  such  a  terrible  thing,"  the  young  man  went  on, 
"  such  a  mysterious  thing.  To  this  day  it  is  wrapped  in 
darkness.  She  was  so  young,  so  fair,  so  good — it  seems  too 
horrible  for  belief,  that  any  human  being  could  lift  his  hand 
against  so  innocent  a  life.     And  yet  it  was  done." 

"A  most  terrible  thing,"  Edith  said;  "but  one  has 
only  to  read  the  papers,  to  learn  such  deeds  of  horror  are 
done  every  day.  Life  is  a  terribly  sensational  story.  You 
say  it  is  shrouded  in  darkness,  but  the  Chesholin  Coyrr  r 
did  not  pcem  at  all  in  the  dark." 

"  You  mean  Inez  Catheron.     She  was  innocent." 

" Indeed  !  " 

"She  was  not  guilty,  except  in  this — she  knew  who  was 
guilty,  and  concealed  it.  Of  that,  I  have  reason  to  be 
sure." 

"  Her  brother,  of  course — the  Juan  Catheron  of  the  pap- 
ers ?  " 

"  Who  is  to  tell  ?  Even  that  is  not  certain.  No,"  in  an- 
swer to  Iier  look  of  surprise,  "  it  is  not  certain.  I  am  sure 
my  aunt  believes  in  his  innocence." 

"  Then  who—" 


1 68 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


"Ah  —  who?"  the  baronet  said  mournfully,  "who  was 
the  murderer?     It  may  be  that  we  will  never  know." 

"You  will  know,"  Edith  said  decidedly.  "I  am  sure  of 
it.  I  am  a  tirm  believer  in  (he  truism  that  '  murder  will  out.' 
Sooner  or  later  you  will  know." 

She  spoke  with  the  calm  conviction  of  prophecy.  She 
looked  back  to  shudder  at  her  own  words  in  tiie  after-days. 

"  Three-and-twenty  years  is  a  tolerable  time  to  forget  even 
the  bitterest  sorrow,  but  the  thought  of  that  tragedy  is  as 
bitter  to  my  aunt  to-day,  as  it  was  when  it  was  done.  She 
cannot  bear  to  speak  of  it — I  believe  she  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  it.  What  I  know,  therefore,  concerning  it,  I  have 
learned  from  others.  Until  I  was  eighteen,  I  knew  abso- 
lutely nothing.  Of  my  mother,  of  course  I  have  no  remem- 
brance, and  yet" — his  eyes  and  tone  grew  dreamy — "as 
far  back  as  I  can  recall,  there  is  in  my  mind  the  mem- 
ory of  a  woman,  young  and  handsome,  bending  above  my 
bed,  kissing  and  crying  over  me.  l^fy  mother  was  fair,  tlie 
face  I  recall  is  dark.  You  will  think  me  sentimental — you 
will  laugh  at  me,  perhaps,  "  he  said,  smiling  nervously  ;  "you 
will  set  me  down  as  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  yet  it  is 
there." 

Her  dark,  earnest  eyes  looked  up  at  him,  full  of  womanly 
sympathy. 

"  Laugh  at  you  !  Think  better  of  me.  Sir  Victor.  In 
these  days  it  is  rare  enough  to  see  men  with  either  memory 
or  veneration  for  their  moHier — whether  dead  or  alive." 

He  looked  at  her  ;  words  seemed  struggling  to  his  lips. 
Once  he  half  spoke.  Then  he  checked  himself  suddenly. 
When  he  did  speak  it  was  with  a  total  change  of  tone. 

"  And  T  am  keeping  you  sellishly  here  in  the  cold.  Take 
my  arm.  Miss  Darrell ;  you  must  not  stop  another  instant." 

She  obeyed  at  once.  He  led  her  to  her  cabin-door — 
hesitated — took  her  hand  and  held  it  while  he  spoke  : 

"I  don't  know  why,  as  I  said  before,  I  have  talked  of 
this ;  I  could  not  have  done  it  with  any  one  else.  Let  me 
thank  you  for  your  sympatliy  with  all  my  heart." 

Then  he  was  gone  ;  and,  wxy  grave  and  thoughtful,  Edith 
sought  Trixy  and  the  up[)er  berth.  Miss  Stuart  lay  calmly 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  the  sea-sick,  blissfully  un- 
conscious of  the  traitorous  goings  on  about  her.      Edith 


ONE  MOONLIGHT  NIGHT. 


169 


looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  twinge.  Was  it  fair,  after  all  ? 
was  it  strictly  honorable  ?  "  Poor  Trix,"  she  said,  kissing 
her  softly,  "  1  don't  tliink  it  will  be;w/(  /  " 

Next  morning,  at  breakfast,  Miss  Darrell  noticed  that  Mr. 
Stuart,  junior,  watched  her  as  lie  sii)i)e(l  his  coffee,  with  a 
portentous  countenance  that  foreboded  something.  ^Vhat  it 
foreboded  came  out  presently.  He  led  her  on  deck — offered 
her  his  arm  for  a  morning  constitutionid,  and  oi)ened  fire 
thus  wise  : 

"  Wiiat  were  you  and  the  baronet  about  on  deck  at  ab- 
normal hours  of  the  night?  What  was  the  matter  with  you 
both?" 

"Now,  now  I"  cried  Edith,  "how  do  you  come  to  know 
anything  about  it  ?  What  business  have  small  boys  like  you, 
s[)ying  on  the  actions  of  their  elders,  when  they  should  be 
safely  tucked  up,  and  asleep  in  their  little  beds?" 

"  1  wasn't  spying  ;  I  was  asleej).  1  have  no  restless  con- 
•science  to  keep  me  prowling  about  at  unholy  iiours." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  know,  then  ? 

"  A  little  bird  told  me." 

"I'll  twist  your  little  bird's  neck!  Who  was  it,  sir?  I 
command  you." 

"  How  she  queens  it  already!  Don't  excite  yourself,  you 
small  Amazon.     It  was  the  officer  of  the  deck." 

"  The  officer  of  the  deck  might  be  much  better  employed  ; 
and  you  may  tell  him  so,  with  iii}  compliments." 

"  I  will  ;  but  you  don't  deny  it — you  were  there  !  " 

"1  never  deny  my  actions,"  she  says  with  royal  disdain; 
"yes.  1  was  there." 

"  With  Sir  Victor — alone  ?  " 

"WithSir  Victor— alone!" 

"What  did  you  talk  about,  Miss  Darrell?" 

"  More  than  I  care  to  repeat  for  your  edification,  Mr. 
Stuart.     Have  you  any  more  questions  to  ask,  pray?" 

"  One  or  two  ;  did  he  ask  you  to  marry  him,  Edilh  ?" 

"  Ah,  no  !  "  Ktlith  answers  with  a  sigh  that  is  genuine  ; 
"  there  is  no  such  luck  as  thai  in  store  for  Dithy  Darrell.  A 
baronet's  bride — T.ady  Catheron  !  no,  no — the  cakes  and 
ale  of  life  are  not  for  me." 

"  Would  you  marry  him,  if  he  did  ?     Will  you  marry  him 
when  he  does  ?  for  that  is  what  it  comes  to,  after  all." 
8 


I70 


SHORT  .LVD  SENTIMENTAL. 


"Would  I  many  him  ?"  She  looks  at  him  in  real  incred- 
ulous wonder.  '•Would  I  marry  Sir  Victor  Catheron — I  ? 
My  dear  Charley,  when  you  ask  rational  questions,  I  sliall 
be  happy  to  answer  them,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  but  not 
such  absurdiiy  xs  that." 

"Then,  you  -unlli" 

"  Charley,  don't  be  a  tease — what  do  young  persons  of 
your  juvenile  years  know  about  such  things?  1  don't  like 
the  turn  rhis  convers.ition  has  taken  ;  let  us  change  it,  let  us 
talk  about  the  weather — that's  always  a  safe  subject.  Isn't 
it  a  splendid  morning  ?  Isn't  it  charming  to  have  a  perpet- 
ual fair  wind  ?  And  how  are  you  going  to  account  for  it, 
that  the  wind  is  always  fair  going  to  England,  and  always 
ahead  coming  out  ? 

"  •  England,  my  country— great  and  free 
Heart  of  the  world— I  leap  to  thee  I '  " 

She  sings,  with  a  wicked  look  in  her  dark  eyes,  as  she 
watches  her  cavalier. 

Charley  is  not  going  to  be  put  off,  however ;  he  declines 
to  talk  of  either  wind  or  weather. 

"  Answer  my  question,  Edith,  if  you  please.  If  Sir  Vic- 
tor Catheron  asks  you,  will  you  be  his  wife  ?  "    • 

She  looks  at  him  calmly,  steadily,  the  man  she  loves,  and 
answers  : 

"  If  Sir  Motor  Catheron  asks  me,  I  will  be  his  wife." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


SHORT    AND    SF.NTIMENTAL. 


'VO  days  later,  and  Fastnet  Rock  looms  up  against 
the  blue  sky;  the  iron-bound   Irisli  coast  appears. 
At  noon  they  will  kind  in  Qncenstown. 
"Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen," 
sings  Charle/s  voice  down  the  passage,  early  in  the  morn- 


^ 


■>• 


t 


SHORT  AND   SENTIMENTAL. 


Vfl 


■H 


Charley  can  sing  a  little  still.  He  is  to  lose  Edith.  Sir 
Victor  Cathcron  is  to  win  and  wear  ;  but  as  she  is  not  Ludy 
Catherori  yet,  Mr.  Stuart  postpones  despair  and  suicide  un- 
til she  is. 

She  sprang  from  her  bed  with  a  cry  of  delight.  Ireland  ! 
One,  at  least,  of  the  lands  of  her  dreams. 

"  Trixy  !  "  she  cries.  "  O  Trixy,  look  out  !  '  The  land 
of  sweet  Krin  '  at  last  !  " 

"  I  see  it,"  Trixy  said,  rolling  sleepily  out  of  the  under 
berth;  "and  I  don't  think  much  of  it.  A  lot  of  wicked- 
looking  rocks,  and  not  a  bit  greener  than  at  home.  I 
thought  the  very  sky  was  green  over  Ireland." 

For  the  last  two  days  Trixy's  bitter  trials  had  ended — her 
seasickness  a  dismal  dream  of  the  past.  Siic  was  able,  in 
ravishing  toilet,  to  appear  at  the  dinner-table,  to  pace  the 
deck  on  the  arm  of  Sir  Victor.  As  one  having  the  right, 
she  calmly  resumed  her  sway  where  she  had  left  it  off.  Since 
that  moonlight  night  of  which  she  (Trixy)  happily  knew 
nothing,  the  bare  civilities  of  life  alone  had  j^assed  between 
Miss  I)arrell  and  the  baronet.  Sir  Victor  might  try,  and 
did,  but  with  the  serene  superiority  of  right  and  power 
Miss  Stuart  countermanded  every  move.  Hers  she  was  de- 
termined he  should  be,  and  there  was  all  the  lost  time  to  be 
made  \\\>  besides.  So  she  redoubled  her  attentions,  aided 
and  abetted  by  her  pa — and  how  it  came  about  the  per- 
jilexed  young  Englishman  never  could  tell,  but  somehow  he 
was  constantly  at  Miss  Stuart's  side  and  unable  to  get  away, 
lulith  saw  it  all  and  smiled  to  herself. 

"To-day  for  me,  to-morrow  for  thee,"  she  hummed.  "  I 
have  had  niy  day;  it  is  Trixy's  turn  now.  She  manoeuvres 
so  well  it  would  be  a  pity  to  interfere." 

Charley  was  her  cavalier  those  i)leasant  last  days  ;  both 
were  disposed  to  take  tlie  goods  their  gods  provided,  and  not 
fret  for  to-morrow.  It  would  not  last — life's  fairy  gifts  never 
do,  for  to-day  they  would  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  together, 
and  forget  the  evil  to  come. 

They  landed,  spent  an  hour  in  Queenstown,  then  the  train 
whirled  them  away  "to  that  beautiful  city  called  Cork." 
There  they  remained  two  days,  visited  Blarney  Castle,  of 
course,  and  would  have  kissed  the  lUarney  Stone  but  for  the 


i;: 


SHORT  AND   SENTIMENTAL. 


trouble  of  climl)ing  up  to  it.  Then  off,  aud  away,  to  Kil- 
larncy. 

And  still  Sir  Motor  was  'I'rixy's  captive — still  Mdith  and 
Charley  njaintaincd  their  alliance.  Lady  Helena  uatclu'd 
her  nei)he\v  and  the  American  heiress,  and  her  tine  woman's 
instinct  told  her  he  was  in  no  danger  Hhiw. 

"  If  it  were  the  other  one,  now,"  she  thought,  glancing  at 
Edith's  dark,  Ijiight  face  ;  "but  it  is  quite  clear  how  i  iters 
stand  between  her  and  her  cousin.  What  a  liandrioiu  pair 
they  will  make." 

Another  of  the  ciders — Mr.  James  Stuart — watched  the 
progress  of  matters,  through  very  different  spectacles.  It 
was  the  one  dream  of  his  life,  to  marry  his  son  and  daughter 
to  I'ritish  rank. 

"  Of  wealth,  sir,  they  have  enough,"  said  the  Wall  Street 
banker,  pulling  up  his  collar  pompousl}-.  "  1  will  leave  my 
children  a  cool  million  ai)iece.  'I'heir  descent  is  equal  to 
the  best — to  the  best,  sir — the  royal  rank  of  Scotland  is  in 
their  veins.  I''ortune  I  don't  look  for — blood,  sir — liLoon,  I 
do." 

Over  his  daughter's  ])rogress  after  blood,  he  smiled  com- 
placently.    Over  his  son's  conduct  he  frowned. 

"  Mind  what  you' re  at,  young  man,"  he  said,  on  the  day 
they  left  Cork,  gruffly  to  Charley.  "  I  have  my  eye  on  you. 
Ordinary  attention  to  I'Ved  Darrell's  daughter  I  don't  mind, 
but  no  fooling.  You  understand  me,  sir  ?  No  fooling.  Wy 
Cicorge,  sir,  if  you  don't  marry  to  please  me,  I'll  cut  you  off 
with  a  shilling  !  " 

Mr.  Stuart,  junior,  looked  tranquilly  up  at  Afr.  Stuart, 
senior,  with  an  expression  of  countenance  the  senior  by  no 
means  understood. 

"  Don't  lose  your  temper,  governor,"  he  answered  calmly. 
"  I  won't  many  I'Ved  Darrell's  daughter,  if  that's  what  you 
mean  by  '  ftxjling.'  She  and  1  settled  that  question  two  or 
three  centuries  ago." 

At  the  village  of  Afacroom,  they  quitted  the  comfortable 
railway  carriage,  and  mounted  the  conve\ance  known  in 
Ireland,  as  a  public  car,  a  thing  like  an  overgrown  jaunting- 
car,  on  which  ten  people  can  ride,  sitting  back  to  back,  iso- 
lated by  the  pile  of  luggage  between.  There  was  bur  one 
tourist  for  the  Lakes  besides  themselves,  a  large,  military- 


>«1 


'"» 


I 


SHORT  AND  SF.NTl MENTAL. 


173 


««1 


looking  young  man,  with  muttonchop  whibkers  and  an  eye- 
glass, a  knapsack  and  knickerbockers. 

"ITauiniond,  l)y  Jove!"  exclaimed  Sir  Victor.  "  Ilain- 
niond,  of  liie  Scotch  Clrays.  My  dear  fellow,  delighted  to 
see  yoii.  Captain  llaniuiond,  my  friend,  Mr.  Stuart,  of 
New  York." 

Cai)tain  Hammond  [)ut  up  his  eye-glass  and  bowed.  Char- 
ley lifted  his  liat,  to  this  large  military  swell. 

"  1  say,  Sir  Victor,"  the  Captain  of  Scotch  (Jrays  began, 
"  who'd  have  thought  of  si'eing  )i)u  here,  you  know  ?  They 
said — aw — you  had  gone  exploring  Can  ida,  or  the  United 
States,  or  some  of  those  kind  of  places,  you  know.  Wlio's 
your  party  ?  "  solto  voce  ;  "  Americans — he)'  ?  " 

"American  friends,  and  my  aunt,  Lady  Helena  Powyss." 

"  Now,  thin — l(n)k  alive  yer  honors,"  cried  the  car-driver, 
and  a  scramble  into  seats  instantly  began.  In  his  own 
mind,  Sir  Victor  had  determined  his  seat  should  be  by  Miss 
Darrell's  side.  15ul  what  is  man's  determination  beside 
woman's  resolve  ? 

"Oh,  p-please.  Sir  Victor,"  cries  Miss  Stuart,  in  a  piteou.s 
little  voice,  "  (/<;  help  me  up.  It's  so  dreadfully  high,  and  I 
/7/(;?i/  I  shall  fall  otif.  And  oh,  please,  do  sit  here,  and  point 
out  the  i)laces  as  we  go  along— one  enjoys  i)laces,  so  nnich 
more,  when  some  one  points  them  out,  and  you've  been 
along  here  before." 

What  could  Sir  Victor  do  ?  More  particularly  as  Lady 
Helena  good-humoredly  chimed  in  : 

"Yes,  Victor,  come  and  point  out  the  places.  You  shall 
sit  bodkin,  between  Miss  Beatrix  and  me.  Your  friend  in 
the  Tweed  suit,  can  sit  next,  and  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Stuart 
— where  will  yon  sit  ?" 

"  As  Charley  and  Edith  will  have  all  the  other  side  to 
themselves,"  said  meek  Mrs.  Stuart,  "  1  guess  I'll  sit  beside 
Iv.lith." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  chimed  in  her  spouse,  "  and   I'll   mount  wiih 
cabl)y.     All  serene,  there,  behind?     Then  away  wego  1  " 
I      Away  they  went,  clattering  over  the  road,  with  the  whole 
tatterdemalion  population  of  Macroom  after,  shouting  for 
"  ha'  pennies." 

"  Rags  enough  to  set  up  a  paper-mill,"  suggested  Charley, 


I 


•^ 


174 


SHORT  AND  SENTIMENTAL 


"  and  all  the  noses  turn-ups  !  Edith,  how  do  you  like  this 
arrangement  ?" 

"  1  think  'I'rixy's  cleverer  than  I  ever  gave  her  credit  for," 
laugiied  I'klilli  ;  "it's  a  pily  so  much  di[)lomacy  should  be 
'  love's  labor  lost.'  " 

"  Poor  Trixy  !  She  means  well  too.  Honor  thy  fatiior, 
that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land.  She's  only  trying 
to  fullil  the  command.  And  )ou  think  she  has  no 
chance  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,"  Edith  answers,  with  the  calm  serenity  of 
conviction. 

"  Sir  Victor,  who's  your  friend  with  the  solemn  face  and 
the  funny  knickerbockers  ?  "  whispers  Trixy,  under  her  white 
parasol. 

"  He's  the  Honorable  Angus  Hanunond,  second  son  of 
Lord  Glengary,  and  captain  of  Scotch  Grays,"  replies  Sir 
Victor,  and  Miss  Stuart  opens  her  eyes,  and  looks  with  new- 
born reverence,  at  the  big,  speechless  young  warrior,  who 
sits  sucking  the  head  of  his  umbrella,  antl  who  is  an  honor- 
able and  the  son  of  a  lord. 

The  day  was  delightful,  the  scenery  exquisite,  his  com- 
l)anion  vivacious  in  the  extreme.  Lady  Helena  in  her  most 
genial  mood.  But  Sir  Victor  Catheron  sat  very  silent  and 
^//j'/;'<j'// all  the  way.  Rallied  by  Miss  Stuart  on  his  gloom, 
he  smiled  faintly,  and  acknowledged  he  felt  a  tritle  out  of 
sorts.  As  he  made  the  confession  he  paused  abruptly 
— clear  and  sweet,  rang  out  the  girli.sh  laugh  of  Edith 
Darrell. 

"  Our  friends  on  the  other  side  appear  to  be  in  excellent 
spirits  at  least,"  says  Lady  Helena,  smiling  in  sympathy 
with  that  merry  peal;  "what  a  very  charming  girl  Miss 
Uarrell  is." 

Trixy  shoots  one  swift,  sidelong  glance  at  the  baronet's 
face,  and  answers  demurely  : 

"  Oh  it's  an  understood  thing  that  Ditby  and  Charloy 
are  never  really  hajjpy,  except  when  together.  1  don't 
believe  Charley  would  have  taken  the  trouble  to  come 
at  all,  if  Edith,  at  his  solicitation,  had  not  been  one  of  the 
party." 

"A  very  old  alTair  I  suppose?"  asks  her  ladyship,  still 
smiling. 


V*' 


SIIOR  T  A  XD  SEN  TIMENTA  L. 


175 


"  A  very  old  affair,  indeed,"  Trix  answers  gayly.  "  lulith 
Avill  mnko  a  charming  sister-in-law ;  don't  you  think  so,  Sir 
Victor  ?  " 

She  looks  up  at  him  artlessly  as  she  iilunges  her  small 
dairger  into  a  vital  ijlacc.  lie  tries  to  smile,  and  say  some- 
thing agreeable  in  returi' — the  smile  is  a  failure  ;  the  words 
a  greater  failure.  After  that,  all  Trixy's  attention  falls  harm- 
less. He  sits  moodily  listening  to  the  gay  voices  on  the 
other  side  of  the  luggage,  and  fmds  out  for  sure  and  certain 
that  he  is  dead  in  love  with  Miss  Dairell. 

They  reach  Glengariff  as  the  twilight  shadows  fall — lovely 
dlengarift",  where  they  are  to  dine  and  pass  the  night.  At 
dinner,  by  some  lucky  chance,  l-^dith  is  beside  him,  and 
Captain  Ilammond  falls  into  the  clutches  of  Trix.  And 
Miss  Darrell  turns  her  graceful  shoulder  deliberately  ujjon 
Charley,  and  bestows  her  smiles,  and  glances,  and  absolute 
attention  upon  his  rival. 

After  dinner  they  go  for  a  sail  by  moonlight  to  an  island, 
where  there  are  the  remains  of  a  martello  tower.  The 
ciders,  for  whom  "  moonlight  on  the  lake,"  long  ago  lost  its 
witchery,  and  falling  dews  and  night  airs  retain  their  terrors, 
stay  at  home  and  rest.  Fxlilh  and  Sir  Victor,  Trix  and  the 
Honorable  Angus  Hammond,  saunter  down  arm  in  arm  to 
the  boat.  Charley  and  the  two  Irish  boatmen  bring  up  the 
roar — Mr.  Stuart  smoking  a  consolatory  cigar. 

They  all  "  pile  in"  together,  and  fill  the  little  boat.  The 
baronet  follows  up  his  luck,  and  keeps  close  to  Edith. 
How  beautiful  she  is  with  the  soft  silver  light  on  her  face. 
He  sits  and  watches  her,  and  thinks  of  the  laureate's 
lines : 

"  A  man  h.afl  given  all  other  Hiss 

And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  wast  his  wliole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips." 


''Am 
cousin  ? 


I   too  late  ? "  he  thought ;    "  does  she   love  her 

Is  it  as  his  sister  hints,  or — " 

His  jealous,  anxious  eyes  never  left  her.     She  saw  it  all. 

If  she  had  ever  doubted  her  power  over  him,  she  did  not 

doubt  to-night.     She  smiled,  and  never  once  looked  toward 

Charley. 

"No,"  he  thought,  with  a  sigh  of  relief;  "she  does  not 


176 


IN   TIVO   BOATS. 


caro  for  him  in  that  way — let  Miss  Rtiiait  lliiiik  as  sh>.' 
pleases.  She  likes  liini  in  a  sisterly  way — nothing  nioro. 
1  will  wait  until  we  reach  KuL^IanJ,  and  speak  then.  She, 
and  she  alone,  shall  be  inv  wife." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


IN   TWO    HOATS. 

\RLY  next  morning  our  tourists  remounted  the  car 
and  jogged  slowly  over  that  lovely  stretch  of  coun- 
try which  lies  between  (llengariff  and  KilLirney. 
Their  places  were  as  on  the  day  before — Sir 
Victor  in  the  i)()ssession  of  Trix,  Charley  with  Edith.  Hut 
the  baronet's  gloom  was  gone — hope  filled  his  heart.  She 
did  not  love  her  cousin, — of  tlut  he  had  convinced  himself, 
— and  one  day  he  might  call  her  wife. 

Sir  \'ictor  Catheron  was  that  rara  t77'is,  a  modest  young 
man.  That  this  American  gi:l,  penniless  and  pedigreeless, 
was  beneath  him,  he  never  thought — of  his  own  rank  and 
wealth,  as  motives  to  influence  In-r,  he  never  once  dreamed. 
Nothing  base  or  mercenary  could  liud  a  place  in  so  fair  a 
creature;  so  noble  antl  beautilul  a  fice  must  surely  be  em- 
blematic of  a  still  more  noble  and  beautiful  soul.  Alas  1 
for  the  blindness  of  people  in  love. 

It  was  a  day  of  deligiit,  a  day  of  cloudless  skies,  sparkling 
sunshine,  fresh  mountain  bree/es,  sublime  scenery.  W'iid, 
bleak  valleys,  frowning  Kerry  rocks,  roaring  torrents,  baie- 
footed,  raggcf.l  children,  i)igs  and  people  beneath  the  same 
thatched  roof,  such  sijualor  and  uiter  poverty  as  in  their 
dreams  they  had  never  imagined. 

"  (iood  H'.'aven  !  "  Edith  said,  with  a  shudder,  "  how  can 
life  be  worlh  living  in  such  horrible  poverty  as  this  ?" 

"The  biigbear  of  your  lite  seems  to  be  \)overty,  Edith." 
Charley  answered.  "  I  dare  say  these  people  eat  and  sleep, 
fall  in  love,  marry,  and  are  happy  even  here." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Stuart,  what  a  sentimental  speech,  and 
sillier  even  than  it  is  sentimental.     Marry  and  are  ha[)py  ! 


IN   TWO   BOATS. 


177 


Tliey  many  no  doubt,  aiul  the  pig  lives  in  ihc  •  Tr.-.r,  and 
every  cahiii  swarms  with  children,  but —/m/'/'v.'  Cr.:.'L-y, 
I  used  to  tliink  you  had  one  or  two  grains  of  cuiijui'/.i-ienie, 
at  least — uou'  I  begin  to  doubt  it." 

"  I  begiii  to  doubt  it  myself,  since  I  have  ha.d  the  j»l*?a5ure 
of  knowing  Juluh  Darrcll.  J  defy  mortal  man  to  kcei>  com- 
mon-sense, or  uncommon-sense,  long  in  her  cxmijany. 
Poverty  and  misery,  in  your  lexicon,  mean  the  same 
thing." 

"  The  same  thing.  There  is  no  earthly  evil  Tiiat  can 
equal  poverty." 

They  reacheil  Killarney  late  in  the  eveni!^;,^  an!  '!rove  to 
the  "  Victoria."  'I'he  perfect  weather  still  cojjtjrmctj,  the 
moon  that  had  lit  their  last  night  at  sea,  on  the  wane  now, 
lifted  its  silver  liglit  over  the  matchless  Lakes  of  Ktliamey, 
lying  like  sheijts  of  crystal  light  Iv.-neath. 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  Trix  exclaimed.  The  rest  stood 
silent.  'I'here  is  a  beauty  so  intense  as  to  be  beyond  words 
of  i)raise — so  sweet,  so  solemn,  as  to  hu^^h  the  very  L«;aang 
of  cur  hearts.  It  was  such  beauty  as  this  they  looked  upon 
now. 

They  stood  on  the  velvety  sward — Sir  Victor  with  Trixy 
on  hi;  arm,  Charley  and  lulith  side  by  side.  A  g!ovring 
mass  of  soft,  scarlet  drapery  wrapped  Miss  Djrrcll,  a 
coquettish  hat,  with  a  long,  black  o:trich  j/!jms,  set 
off  her  Spanish  face  and  eyes.  They  had  dined — and 
when  is  moonlight  half  so  poetical  as  after  an  excellent 
dinner  ? 

"I  see  two  or  three  boats,"  remaiked  Sir  Victor.  "I 
])r(ii)o-,e  a  row  on  tiie  lakes." 

"()f  all  thing--,"  secoiuled  15eatrix,  "a  s  lil  3n  the  Likes 
of  Killarney  I  Edith,  do  you  realize  it  ?  Let  us  goat  once. 
Sir  \'ictor." 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  I'"dilh?"  Charley  asked,  "'or 
would  you  rather  go  with  then)  }  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  How  grave  his  fice — how 
quiet  his  tone  !  He  had  been  like  this  all  day,  siJent,  pre- 
occu])ied,  grave. 

"  My  very  dear  Charlev,  how  pt)litc  we  grow  !  how  consider- 
ate of  others'  feelings  !     (>aite  a  new  i)hase  of  yotjr  i'ljterest- 
ril    go   with  you,  cert.tinly — Mr.  Charles 


ing  character. 


8* 


1/8 


IN  TWO  BOATS. 


Stuart,  in  a  state  of  lamblike  meekness,  is  a  study  wortli 
contemplating." 

He  smiled  slightly,  and  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm. 

'•Come,  then,"  he  s:nd,  "let  us  have  this  la>t  evening 
together  ;   who  knows  when  we  shall  have  another?" 

Miss  Darrell's  brown  eyes  opened  to  their  widest  extent. 

"'Thislar^t  evening!  Wiio  knows  wiien  we  shall  have 
another  ! '  Charley,  if  you're  meditating  flight  or  suicitle, 
say  so  at  once — anything  is  better  than  susi)ense.  I  once 
saw  a  picture  of  'The  Knight  of  the  Wotul  Countenance  ' 
— the  K.  of  the  \V.  C.  looked  exactly  as  you  look  now !  If 
you're  thinking  of  strychnine,  say  so — no  one  shall  oppose 
you.  My  only  regret  is,  that  I  shall  have  to  wear  black, 
and  hideous  is  a  mild  word  to  describe  Edith  Darrell  in 
black." 

"Hideous!"  Charley  rejieated,  "you  !  I  wonder  if  you 
could  [jossibly  look  ugly  iii  anything.-*  I  wonder  if  noli 
know  how  pretty  you  are  to-night  in  that  charming  hat  and 
tiiat  scarlet  drapery?" 

"  Certainly  1  know,  and  charming  I  undoubtedly  must 
look  to  wring  a  word  of  i)raise  from  you.  It's  the  iirst  time 
in  all  your  life,  sir,  you  ever  paid  me  a  compliment.  Hith- 
erto you  have  done  nothing  but  fmd  fault  with  my  looks  and 
everything  else." 

"  Tliere  is  a  time  for  everything."  he  answers,  a  little 
sadly— sadly  !  and  Charley  Stuart!  "Tlie  time  for  all 
that  is  past.  Here  is  our  boat.  You  will  steer,  Edith  ?  Yes 
— then  I'll  row." 

The  baronet  and  Trix  were  already  several  yards  off.  out 
upon  the  shining  water.  Another  party — a  large  boat  con- 
taining half-a-dozen,  Captain  Hammond  among  them,  was 
farther  off  still.  In  this  boat  sat  a  girl  with  a  guitar  ;  her  sweet 
voice  as  she  sang  came  romantically  over  the  lake,  and  the 
mountain  echoes,  taking  it  up,  sang  the  refrain  enchantingly 
over  and  over  again.  Ivlith  lifted  Uj)  her  face  to  the  starry 
sky,  the  moonlight  bathing  it  in  a  glory. 

"Oh,  what  a  night !"  she  sighed.  "What  a  brigiit,  beau- 
tiful world  it  is,  and  how  perfectly  happy  one  could  be, 
if—" 

"One  had  thirty  thousand  a  year!"  Charl-jy  suggested. 

"Yes,  e-xaclly.    Why  can't  life  be  all  like  this — moonlight, 


LV   Tl'/O   BOATS. 


179 


capital  dinners,  lot.,  of  friends  and  new  dresses,  a  nice  l)oat, 
and — }'es — 1  will  say  it — somebody  one  likes  very  much  for 
one's  comi)aniun." 

'•Somchody  one  likes  very  much,  Edith?  I  wonder 
sometimes  if  jnu  like  me  at  all — if  it  is  in  you  to  like  any 
one  bat  yoiuself." 

"Thanks!  I  like  myself,  certainly,  and  first  best  I  will 
admit.     After  th  U— " 

"  After  that  ?  "  he  rei)eats. 

"  I  likejw/.  No — keep  quiet,  Charley,  please,  you'll  up- 
set the  boat.  Of  course  1  like  you — aren't  you  my  cousin — 
haven't  you  bec;n  awfully  kind — don't  I  owe  all  this  to  you? 
Charl(;y,  I  bless  that  nii;ht  in  the  snow — it  has  been  the 
luckiest  in  my  life." 

"  And  the  unluckiest  of  nu'ne." 

"Sir !" 

"  O  Edith,  let  us  speak  for  once — let  us  understand  one 
another,  and  then  part  forever,  if  we  must.  Only  why  need 
we  part  at  all?" 

She  turns  pale — she  averts  her  face  from  him,  and  looks 
out  over  the  radiant  water.  Sooner  or  later  she  has  known 
this  must  come — it  has  come  to-nij^iit. 

"Why  need  we  part  at  all?"  He  is  leaning  on  his  oars, 
and  they  are  lloatinj;  lightly  with  the  stream.  "1  don't  need 
to  tell  you  how  I  love  you  ;  you  know  it  well  enough  ;  and  I 
think — 1  hope — you  care  for  me.  He  true  to  yourself,  Edith 
— you  belong  to  me — come  to  me  ;  be  my  wife." 

There  is  passion  in  his  tone,  in  his  eyes,  but  his  voice  is 
quiet,  and  he  sits  with  the  oars  in  his  hands.  Even  in  this 
supreme  moment  of  his  life  Mr.  Stuart  is  true  to  his  "prin- 
ciples," and  will  make  no  scene. 

"  You  know  I  love  you,"  he  repeats,  "  as  the  man  in  the 
Cork  theatre  said  the  other  night:  Til  go  down  on  my 
knees  if  you  like,  but  1  can  love  you  just  as  well  standing 
ui).'  ICdith,  s])eak  to  me.  How  can  you  ever  many  any 
one  but  me — but  me,  whose  life  yon  saved,  My  darling, 
forget  your  cynicism — it  is  but  lii)-deep — you  don't  really 
mean  it — and  say  you  will  be  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife  !  "  She  !  'ighs,  but  her  heart  thrills  as  she  says 
it.  "Your  wife  !  It  would  l)e  pleasant,  Charley  ;  but,  like 
most  of  the  pleasant  things  of  life,  it  can  never  be." 


fc(?fe; 


'Mf, 


I  So 


nv  Tivo  no. ITS. 


"  Edith ! " 

"Chuirlcy,  all  this  is  nonsense,  and  you  know  it.  We  ai-e 
cousins— we  are  good  fiicnils  and  stanch  coiinades,  and  al- 
ways will  be,  I  hoi)e;  but  lovers — no,  no,  no  !" 

"  And  why  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  already — told  you  over  and  over 
again?  If  you  don't  despise  uie,  and  think  nie  heartless 
and  base,  the  fault  has  not  been  my  want  of  candor.  My  cyni- 
cisms [  mean,  every  word,  if  you  had  your  father's  wealth, 
the  fortune  he  means  to  leave  you,  I  would  marry  you  to- 
morrow, and  be,"  her  lips  trembled  a  little,  ''  the  happiest 
girl  on  earth." 

"  You  don't  care  for  me  at  all,  then  ?  "  he  calmly  asks. 

"Care  for  you  !  O  Cnarley  !  can't  you  see?  I  am  not 
(?//  selfish.  I  care  for  you  so  n)uch  that  1  would  sooner  die 
than  marry  you.  For  you  a  marriage  with  me  means  ruin 
— nothing  else." 

"My  father  is  fond  of  me.  I  am  his  only  son.  lie 
would  relent." 

"  He  never  would,"  she  answered  firmly,  "and  you  know 
it.  Charley,  the  day  he  spoke  to  you  in  Cork,  1  was  behind 
the  window-curtains  reading.  I  heard  e\'ery  word.  My 
first  impulse  was  to  come  out  and  confront  him — to  throw 
back  his  favors  and  patronage,  and  demand  to  be  sent  home. 
A  horrid  bad  temper  is  numbered  among  the  list  of  my 
failings.  But  I  did  not.  I  heard  your  calm  reply — the  'soft 
answer  that  turneth  away  wrath,'  and  it  fell  like  oil  on  my 
troubled  spirit. 

"  '  Don't  lose  your  temper,'  you  said  ;  '  Fred  Darrell's 
daughter  and  I,  won't  marry,  if  that's  what  you  mean.' 

"  I  admire  your  jirudence  and  truth.  1  took  the  lesson 
home,  and — stayed  behind  the  curtains.  And  we  will  keep 
to  that — you  and  )'"red  Darrell's  daughter  will  never  marr\ ." 

"  15ut,  Edith,  you  know  what  1  meant.  Good  Heavens! 
you  don't  for  a  second  suijpose — " 

"  I  don't  for  a  second  suppose  anything  but  what  is  good 
and  generous  of  you,  Charley.  1  know  you  would  face  j'our 
father  like  a — like  a  'griftin  rampant,'  to  ipi ote  'i'rix,  and 
brave  all  conse'iuences,  if  1  would  let  you.  Hut  1  won't  let 
you.  You  can't  afford  to  defy  your  lather.  I  can't  afford 
to  marry  a  poor  man." 


IN   7'IVO  BOATS. 


I8l 


"  I  am  young — I  am  strong — [  can  work.  I  have  my 
hands  and  my  head,  a  tolerable  education,  and  many  friends. 
We  would  iKJt  starve." 

"We  would  not  starve — jierhaps,"  Edith  says,  and  laughs 
again,  rather  drearily.  "  We  would  only  grub  along,  wanting 
everything  that  makes  life  endurable,  and  be  miseral)le  be- 
voiid  all  telling  before  the  Inst  year  ended.  We  don't  want 
to  hate  each  other — we  don't  want  to  marry.  You  couldn't 
work,  (JharK'y — you  were  iievt.T  born  for  drudgery.  And  I 
—  I  can't  forget  the  training  of  my  life  even  for  you." 

"You  can't,  indeed— you  do  your  training  credit,"  he  an- 
swered bitterly. 

"And  so,"  she  goes  on,  her  face  drooping,  "don't  i)e  an- 
gry; vou'li  thank  me  fur  this  some  day.  l,et  it  be  all  over 
and  (lone  with  to  night,  and  never  be  spoken  of  more.  Oh, 
Charley,  my  brother,  don't  yon  see  we  could  not  be  hapi)y 
together — don't  you  see  it  is  better  we  should  part?" 

"  It  shall  be  exactly  as  you  wish.  1  am  but  a  poor  spe- 
( ial  pleailer,  and  your  worldly  wisdom  is  'O  clear,  the  dullest 
intellect  nnght  comprehend  it.  You,  throw  me  over  without 
a  pang,  and  you  mean  to  marry  the  baronet.  Only — as  you 
are  not  yet  his  excluhive  pro|)erty,  bought  with  a  price — an- 
swer me  this  :   You  love  me  ?" 

Her  head  droo|)ed  lower,  her  eyes  were  fidi  of  passionate 
tears,  her  heart  full  of  passionate  pain.  Throw  h.im  over 
without  a  p;uig  !  In  her  heart  of  hearts  Edith  Darrell  knew 
what  ii  c    ■•':  her  to  be  heartless  to-night. 

"Auswi.;  me!"  he  said  imperiously,  his  eyes  kindling. 
"  Answer  me  !  That  njuch,  at  least,  1  claim  as  my  right. 
I)')  y^'i  lov   me  or  do  you  not  ?  " 

d  the  answer  conu-s  very  humbly  and  low. 

'•  Charlev  !   what  need   to  ask  ?     You   know  only  too  well 
-I  dn." 

And  thi-n  silence  fdls.  He  takes  up  the  oars  again — 
their  s<  i;.  dip,  ami  the  singing  of  the  girl  in  the  distant  boat, 
the  only  sounds.  White  moonlight  and  black  shadows, 
islands  overrun  with  arbutus,  that  "myrtle  of  Killarney," 
and  frowning  mountains  on  every  hand.  The  words  of  the 
gill's  gay  song  come  over  thu  water  : 


1 82 


/.V    TIFO   BOATS. 


"The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
la  watcliiiii^  and  puismng, 
'J'lic  liL;ht  that  lies 
In  Moman's  eyes 
Has  been  my  heart's  nndoing. 

"  Though  wisdom  oft  lias  sought  me, 
I  scorned  llie  lore  she  brought  me  ; 
My  only  books 
Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me." 

"And  folly's  all  they've  taught  nic ! "  Charley  sr.^  at 
lencfth.  "Come  what  niav,  it  is  better  that  1  should  have 
spoken  and  you  should  have  answered.  Come  what  may — 
though  you  marry  Sir  \'ictor  to-morrow — I  would  not  have 
the  jiast  changed  if  I  could." 

"And  you  *vill  not  blame  me  too  much — you  will  not 
quite  despise  me?"  she  pleads,  her  voice  broken,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands.  "I  can't  help  it,  Charley.  1  would 
rather  die  than  be  jioor." 

He  knows  she  is  crying ;  her  tears  move  htm  strangely. 
They  are  in  ll\e  s.iadow  of  Tore  Mountain.  He  stops 
rowing  for  a  saoment,  takes  hi  r  hand,  and  lifts  it  to  his  li[)3. 

"  I  will  iuove  you  all  my  life,"  is  his  u:.  .wer. 

T  .  ,"^  ]-,nv  wo  of  the  watcr-paity  were  enjoying  them- 
-  A  ter  of  a  mile  farther  off,  another  interesting 

little  siEcuc  war-  going  on  in  another  boat. 

Trixy  had  been  rattling  on  volubly.  It  was  one  of  Trixy's 
fixed  ideas  tlaat  to  entertain  and  fascinate  anybody  her 
tongue  must  go  like  a  windmill.  Sir  Victor  sat  and  hstcned 
rather  absently,  replied  rather  dreamily,  and  as  if  his  miml 
were  a  hundred  miles  away.  Miss  Stuart  took  no  notice, 
but  kept  on  all  the  harder,  endeavorii;g  to  be  fascinating. 
lUit  there  is  a  limit  even  to  the  power  of  a  woman's  tongue. 
That  limit  was  reached  ;  there  came  a  lull  and  a  pause. 

"The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing,"  began  tin;  English  girl  in 
the  third  boat.  The  idea  was  suggestive  ;  Trix}'  drew  a  deep- 
breatli,  and  made  a  fresh  spurt — this  time  on  the  subject  of 
the  late  Ttuxnas  Moore  and  his  melodies.  But  the  young 
baronet  suddenly  interposed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Stuart,"  he  began  hastily,  and 


IN    71V0   ZiO.lTS. 


183 


in  a  somewnat  nervous  voice  ;  ''  but  there  is  a  subject  very 
near  to  my  heart  on  which  1  should  Hke  to  speak  to  you  this 
evening." 

'J'rix  sat  straight  up  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  as  if  she  had 
been  galvanized.  Her  iieart  gave  one  great  ecstatic  tliuuip. 
"  Oh,"  thought  iMiss  Stuart,  "  he's  going  to  pop  ! ''  1  grieve 
to  relate  it,  but  that  was  the  identical  way  the  young  lady 
thought  it.     "  He's  goiijg  to  poj),  as  sure  as  I  live  1 " 

There  was  a  pause — unspeakably  painful  to  Miss  Stuart. 
'*  Yes,  Sir  Victor,"  she  faltered  in  her  most  dulcet  and  en- 
couraging accents. 

"  I  had  made  up  my  juind  not  to  speak  of  it  at  all,"  went 
on  Sir  Victor,  looking  embarrassed  and  rather  at  a  loss  for 
words,  "until  we  reached  England.  1  don't  wish  to  be 
jjrernalure.  I — I  dread  a  refusal  so  unspeakably,  that  I 
almost  fear  to  speak  at  all." 

What  was  Miss  Stuart  to  say  to  this  ?  What  could  any 
well-trained  young  lady  say? 

"  (iood  gracious  me  !"  (this  is  what  she  thought,)  ''why 
don't  he  speak  out,  and  not  go  beating  about  the  bush  in 
this  ridiculous  manner  !  \Vhat's  he  afraid  of  ?  Refusal, 
indeed  !     Stuff  and  nonsense  !  " 

"  It  is  only  of  late,"  ])ursued  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  "  that  I 
liave  quite  realized  my  own  feelings,  and  then  when  1  saw 
the  attention  paid  by  another,  and  received  with  evident 
pleasure,  it  was  my  jealousy  tlrst  taught  me  that  I  loved." 

"  He  means  Captain  Hannnond,"  tiiought  Trixy  ;  "he's 
jealous  of  hun,  as  sure  as  a  gun.  How  lucky  we  met  him  at 
Macroom." 

"  And  yet,"  again  resumed  the  baronet,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"I  don't  quite  despair.  I  am  sure,  Miss  Stuart,  I  have  no 
real  cause." 

"  No-o-o,  I  think  not,"  faltered  Miss  Stuart. 

"And  when  1  addre^^  myself  to  your  father  and  mother — 
as  I  sliall  very  soon — you  think,  Miss  Stuart,  t/uy  will  also 
favor  my  suit  ?" 

'■'■They  favor  his  suit?"  thought  Trix,  "good  Heaven 
above  !  was  ever  earthly  modesty  like  tliis  young  man's  ?  " 
Hut  aloud,  still  in  the  trembling  tones  befitting  the  occasion, 
"  I — think  so — 1  knoK>  so,  Sir  Vii  lor.  It  will  be  only  too 
much  honor,  I'm  sure." 


iS4 


TN   TWO   nOATS 


"And — oh.  Miss  Stuart — r.eatrix — if  you  will  allow  inc  to 
call  you  so — y(Mi  tliink  that  when  J.  s[)cak — when  1  a.sk — I 
will  Le  accepted  ?" 

*'  He's  a  tool  ! "  thought  Beatrix,  with  an  inward  hurst. 
"A  bashtul,  ridiculous  f(jol !  Why,  in  tiic  name  of  all  dial's 
naniby-paniby,  doesn't  he  pop  the  c|uestion,  like  a  man,  and 
liave  ilone  with  it  ?  IJashfuluess  is  all  vety  well — nobody 
like>  a  little  of  it  better  than  I  do;  but  there  is  no  use  run- 
ning M  into  the  ground." 

••  Vou  are  silent,"  pursued  Sir  Victor.  "  Miss  Stuart,  it  is 
not  i)0S5ibIe  that  I  am  too  late,  that  there  is  a  previous  en- 
gagement ?  " 

.Mjis  Stuart  straightened  herself  up,  lifted  her  head,  and 
smiled.  She  smiled  in  a  way  that  would  have  driven  a  lover 
straight  out  of  his  senses. 

••  Cail  me  Beatrix,  Sir  Victor ;  I  like  it  best  from  my 
friends — tVom — from  yoii.  No,  there  is  no  previous  engage- 
ment, and"  (archly,  thi::)  "  1  am  cjuite  sure  Sir  Victor  Cath- 
cron  need  never  fear  a  refusal." 

"  Thanks."  And  precisely  as  another  young  gentleman 
was  doing  in  the  shadow  of  the  "Tore,"  Sir  Victor  did  in  the 
shadow  of  the  ''Eagle's  Nest,"  Me  lifted  his  fair  compan- 
ion's hand  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it. 

Aftrr  t'n.at  of  course  there  was  silence.  Trixy's  heart 
was  fuki  of  joy — pure,  unadulterated  joy,  to  bursting.  Oh, 
to  be  out  of  this,  and  able  to  tell  pa  and  ma,  and  Charle\-, 
and  Edith,  and  everybody  !  Lady  Catheron  !  "  IJeatrix — 
LaiJy  Catheron  !  "  No — I  can't  describe  Tri.xy's  feelings. 
There  are  some  joys  too  intense  and  too  sacred  for  the 
Queen's  English.  She  shut  her  eyes  antl  drifted  along  in 
that  blessed  little  boat  in  a  speechless,  ecstatic  trance. 

An  hour  later,  and,  as  the  clocks  of  Killarney  were  strik- 
ing ten.  Sir  Victor  Catheron  helped  Miss  Stuart  out  of  the 
boat,  and  had  led  her  up — still  silently — to  the  hotel.  At 
the  entrance  he  paused,  and  said  the  only  disagreeable  thing 
he  had  uttered  tonight.  "One  last  favor,  I'calrix,"  taking 
her  hand  and  ga/ing  at  her  tenderly,  "  I  must  ask.  Let  what 
has  jassed  between  us  remain  between  us  for  a  few  days 
longer.  I  hadraliier  you  did  not  speak  of  it  even  to  )()ur 
]iarenis.  My  aunt,  who  has  been  more  than  a  mother  to  me, 
is  ignorant  still  of  my  feelings — it  is  her  right  that  I  inform 


IN   TWO   BOATS. 


185 


her  fust.  Only  a  few  days  inoic,  and  then  all  the  world  may 
know." 

"Very  well,  Sir  Victor,"  IJeatri.x  answered  demurely ;  "as 
you  please,  of  course.  J  slian't  speak  to  [>a  or  ma.  Good- 
night, Sir  Victor,  good  night  I  " 

May  I  tell  it,  Miss  Stuart  actually  gave  the  baronet's  hand 
a  little  squeeze?  Hut  were  thi.-y  not  engageil  lovers,  or  as 
good  ?  and  isn't  if  permitted  engaged  lovers  to  squeeze  each 
other's  right  hands  ?  So  they  partetl.  Sir  Victor  strolled 
awav  to  smoke  a  cigar  in  the  moonlight,  and  Miss  Stuart, 
witli  a  beatified  face,  swept  upstairs,  lier  high-heeled  Now 
York  gaiters  click -clicking  over  the  ground.  Lady  Cath- 
eron,  I  ,ady  Catheron  !  Oh,  what  would  all  Fifth  Avenue  say 
to  this  ? 

Sleep  was  out  of  the  question — it  was  open  to  debate 
whether  she  would  t'-i'cr  sleep  again.  She  would  go  and  see 
Kdith.  Yes,  Edith  and  Charley  had  got  home  before  her — 
she  would  go  and  see  lulith. 

She  oi)ened  the  door  and  went  in  with  a  swish  of  silk  and 
patchouli.  The  candles  were  unlit.  Miss  Darrell,  still  wear- 
ing her  hat  and  scarlet  wrap,  sat  at  the  window  contemi)lat- 
ing  the  heavenly  bodies. 

"All  in  the  dark,  Dithy,  and  thinking  by  the 'sweet  silver 
light  of  the  moon?'  O  lulie  !  isn't  it  just  the  heavenliest 
night?" 

"  Is  that  what  you  came  in  to  say,  Miss  Stuart  ?" 

"Don't  be  impatient,  there's  a  dear!  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  how  happy  1  am,  and  what  a  delicious — ile  li-ci-ous," 
said 'I'ri.K,  dragging  out  the  sweet  syllables,  "sail  I've  hatl. 
O  lulie  !  how  I've  enjoyed  myself!     Did  you?" 

"  hnmensely  !"  lulith  answered,  with  brief  l)itterness,  and 
sometliing  in  her  tone  made  Tri\y  look  at  her  more  closely. 

"  Why,  lulith,  I  do  believe  you've  been  crying  '.  " 

"  Clrying  !  liosh  !  1  nev(!r  cry.  I'm  stu[)id — I'm  sleepy 
—  my  head  aches.     JvKcuse  me,  Trix,  but  I'm  going  to  bed." 

"Wait  just  one  moment.  O  Edith,"  with  a  great  burst, 
"  I  m,// keep  it!  I'll  die  if  I  don't  tell  somebody.  O 
I'ldilh,  Ivlilh  !   wish  me  ji)\.  Sir  Victor  has  proposal  I" 

"  Trix  !  " 

She  could  just   say  that   one   word  —then   she   sat  dum!). 

"  O    yes,   I'Alilh— out   in    the    boat    to-night.     O    I'Aliih  I 


1 86 


IN   rikV   BO.ITS. 


I'm  so  happy — I  want  to  jump — [  want  to  dance — I  f(.-cl 
wild  with  (loliL;ht  !  Just  think  of  it — //li/i/;  of  it  !  Tiixy 
Stuart  will  bo  My  Lady  Cathcron  !  " 

She  turned  of  a  dead  white  from  brow  to  chin.  She  sat 
speechless  with  the  shock — looking  at  'I'rixy — unable  to 
s[)eak  or  move. 

"lie's  most  awfully  and  a^gravatingly  modest,"  pursued 
]'>eatrix.  "  Couldn't  say  plump,  like  a  man  and  brother, 
*  Trixy  Stuart,  will  you  marry  me  ? '  but  beat  about  the  bush, 
and  talked  of  being  refused,  and  fearing  a  rival,  and  si)eak- 
ing  to  ma  antl  |)a  and  l^aily  I  lelena  when  we  got  to  England. 
]3ut  perhaps  that's  the  way  the  iSritish  aristocracy  make  love. 
He  asked  me  if  there  was  any  previous  engagement,  and  any 
fear  of  a  refusal,  and  that  rubbish.  I  don't  see,"  exclaimed 
Trixy,  growing  suddenly  aggrieved,  "w/iyhQ  couldn't  speak 
out  like  a  hero,  and  be  ilone  with  it?  He's  had  encourage- 
ment enouofh,  toothless  knows  I  " 

SomethiuL;  ludicrous  in  the  last  words  struck  Edith — she 
burst  out  laughing.  IJut  somehow  the  laugh  sounded  unnat- 
ural, and  her  lips  felt  stiff  and  strange. 

"You're  as  hoarse  as  a  raven  and  as  pale  as  a  ghost,"  said 
Trix.  "That's  what  comes  of  sitting  in  draughts,  and  look- 
ing at  the  moonshine.  I'm  awfully  hapi)y,  Edith  ;  and  when 
I'm  Lady  Catheron,  you  shall  come  and  live  with  me  always 
--always,  you  dear  old  darling,  just  like  a  sister.  And  some 
day  you'll  l.ie  my  sister  in  reality,  and  Charley's  wife." 

She  Hung  her  arms  around  luiilh  neck,  and  gave  her  a 
rapturous  hug.  Edith  Darrell  unclasped  her  arms  and  i)ushed 
her  away. 

"  I'm  tired,  Trix  ;  I'm  cold,"  She  shivered  from  head  to 
foot.     "  1  want  to  go  to  bed." 

"  But  won't  you  say  something,  Dithy  ?  Won't  you  wish 
me  joy  ?  " 

"  I — wish — you  joy." 

Her  lips  kept  that  strange  feeling  of  stiffness — her  focehad 
lost  every  trace  of  color.  Oh,  to  be  alone  and  free  from 
Trix  ! 

"  You  say  it  as  if  you  didn't  mean  it,"  said  Trix  indig- 
nantly, gettmg  up  ancl  moving  to  the  door.  "  You  look  half- 
fro/en,  and  as  white  as  a  sheet.  I  should  advise  you  to  shut 
the  window  and  go  to  bed." 


SIio  was  gone, 
heavy  sigli.     So  ! 


ALAS  FOR    TRIX! 


Edith  drew  a  long  brealli 


187 


tliat  was   over — and    it 


a  long,  tired, 
was    'J'nx,   after 


Trix,  after  all  !  How  strangely  it  sounded — it  stunned 
hei-.  Trix,  after  all  and  she  had  made  sure  it  was  to  be  her- 
self. I  le  iiad  looked  at  her,  he  had  spoken  to  her,  as  he  had 
never  looked  or  sjjoken  to  Trix.  His  color  iiad  risen  like  a 
girl's  at  her  coming — ^she  had  felt  his  heart  bound  as  she 
leaned  on  his  arm.     And  it  was  'I'rix,  after  all  ! 

Slie  laid  iier  arm  u|)on  the  window-sill,  and  her  face  down 
upon  it,  feeling  sick — sick — that  I  should  have  to  write  it  ! — 
with  anger  and  envy.  She  was  I'xlith  Darrell,  the  poor  rela- 
tion, still — ^and  Trix  was  to  be  Lady  Catlieron. 

"A  i)retty heroine  !"  cries  some  "gentle  reader,"  looking 
angrily  up  ;  '*  a  nasty,  envious,  selfish  creature.  Not  the  sort 
of  a  heroine  7*yfV^  used  to."  Ah!  1  know  that — none  bet- 
ter ;  but  then  pure  and  i)erfect  beings,  who  are  ready  to  re- 
sign their  lovers  and  husbands  to  make  other  women  happy, 
are  to  be  found  in — books,  and  nowhere  else.  And  think- 
ing it  over  and  putting  yourself  in  her  i)lace — honestly,  now  ! 
— wouldn't  you  have  been  envious  yourself? 


CHAPTER  IX. 


ALAS   FOR   TRIX  ! 


NI)    after   to-night  we   v/ill    all  have  a  rest,  thank 
' -M  v4l   Heaven  !   and  my  lidgrimage  will  come  to  an  end. 
I   A  f(jrtnight  at  Pow;,  ■^   i'i.  ce  before  you  go  uj)  to 
London,  my  dear  M.s.  Si  lart — not  a  day  less." 
Thus  Lady  Helena  Powyss,  eight  days  later,  seated  luxu- 
riously in  the  first-class  carriage,  and  Hying  along  by  exjiress 
train  between  Dublin  and  Kingston,  en  roietf  for  Cheshire. 

They  had  "done"  the  south  of  Ireland,  finished  the 
Lakes,  spent  a  i)leasant  half-week  in  Dublin,  and  now,  in 
the  light  of  the  ALiy  afternoon,  were  ilying  along  to  meet 
the  channel  boat. 


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ALAS  FOR    TKIXI 


Captain  Hammond  was  of  the  party  still,  and  included  in 
the  invitation  to  Powyss  Tlace.  Me  sat  between  Lady 
Helena  and  Sir  Victor  now — "fiss  Stuart,  in  charming  trav- 
elHng  costume^  in  the  sunny  seat  next  the  wintiow.  On  the 
opiJosite  seat,  at  the  other  extreme  end,  sat  Edith  Darrell, 
her  eyes  riveted  upon  the  pages  of  a  book. 

Since  that  night  in  the  boat  Miss  Stuart  had  quietly  but 
resolutely  taken  entire  possession  of  Sir  Victor.  He  was 
hers — she  had  the  right.  If  a  gentleman  is  modest  to  a 
fault,  mayn't  a  lady  overstep,  by  an  inch  or  two,  the  line 
that  Mrs.  Grundy  draws,  and  meet  him  half  way  ?  There  is 
an  adage  about  heli)ing  a  lame  dog  over  a  stile — that  work 
of  mercy  is  what  Trixy  was  doing  now. 

Before  she  left  her  room  on  the  ensuing  morning  follow- 
ing that  never-to-beforgotten  night,  Edith  had  entered  and 
taken  Trix  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  was  stupid  and  out  of  sorts  last  night,  Trixy,"  slie  had 
sair!  "  If  I  seemed  churlish,  I  ask  your  pardon,  dear,  with 
all  my  heart.  1  was  surprised — I  don't  mind  owning  that  — 
and  perhaps  a  little,  just  a  little,  envious.  But  all  that  is. 
over  now,  and  I  do  wish  you  joy  and  hai)piness  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  You're  the  best  and  dearest  girl  in 
the  world,  and  deserve  your  fairy  fortune." 

And  she  had  meant  it.  Trix  icas  one  of  the  best  and 
dearest  girls  in  tlie  world,  and  if  Sir  Victor  p.*-eferred  her  to 
herself,  what  riglit  had  siic  to  gruilge  her  her  luck.  Against 
the  baronet  himself,  siie  felt  anger  deep  and  strong  still. 
How  dared  he  seek  her  out  as  he  had  done,  select  her  for 
his  confidante,  and  look  love  in  fifty  dilTerent  ways,  when  he 
meant  to  marry  Trix  ?  What  a  fool  she  might  have  made 
of  herself  had  she  been  a  whit  less  proud  tlian  she  was. 
Since  then  she  had  avoided  him ;  in  no  marked  manner, 
perhaps,  but  she  /lad  avoided  him.  He  should  pour  no 
more  family  confidences  into  her  ear,  that  she  resolved. 
He  belonged  to  Trix — let  him  talk  to  Trix,  then ;  she 
wanted  no  other  girl's  lover.  If  he  felt  this  avoidance,  he 
showed  no  sign.  I'erhaps  he  thought  Miss  Sir irt  had 
dropi)ed  some  hint — girls,  desjjite  their  promises,  have  been 
known  to  do  such  things — and  this  change  was  becoming 
maidenly  reserve.  Sir  Victor  liked  maidenly  reserve — none 
of  your  Desdemonas,  who  meet  their  Othellos  half  way,  for 


ALAS  FOR    TR/XI 


189 


him.  Trixy's  unremitting  attentions  were  sisterly,  of 
course.  He  felt  grateful  accordingly,  and  strove  to  repay 
her  in  kind.  One  other  thing  he  obscrvetl,  too,  and  with 
great  comi)laceney — the  frien(lshi|)  between  Miss  D.urell 
and  her  Cousin  Cliarley  had  come  to  an  end.  Thai  is  to 
say,  they  rather  kepi  aloof  froni  each  oilier — beyond  ihe 
most  ordinary  attention,  Afr.  Stuart  seemed  to  have  nothing 
whatever  to  say  to  his  cousin.  This  was  as  it  should  be  ; 
certainly  Beatrix  must  have  dro[)ped  that  very  judicious  hint. 
He  '..'as  glad  he  had  spoken  to  her. 

They  reached  Kingston  in  the  early  twilight,  and  em- 
barked. It  was  rough  crossing,  of  course.  Trix  was  seized 
with  agonies  of  mal  de  mcr  once  more.  I'.dith  waited  upon 
her  assiduously.  Mrs.  Stuart  and  Lady  Helena  had  a  stew- 
ardess apiece.  Hai)])ily,  if  severe,  it  was  short  ;  before 
midnight  they  were  at  Holyhead,  and  on  the  tiain  once 
more.  Then  oiT — Hying  through  Wales — whirling  by  moun- 
tains— illuminated  glass  stat'ons — the  broad  sea  to  their 
left,  asleep  under  the  stars,  the  spray  at  times  almost  in 
their  faces.  Past  villages,  ruins,  castles,  and  cottages,  and 
at  two  in  the  morning  thundering  into  the  big  station  at 
Chester. 

Two  carriages  awaited  them  at  the  Chester  station.  Into 
one  entered  NFr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart,  Sir  Victor,  and  Beatrix  ; 
into  the  other.  Lady  Helena,  Edith,  Charley,  and  Cai^tain 
Hanunond.  They  drove  away  through  cpiiet,  quaint  Ches- 
ter, "rare  old  city  of  Chester,"  with  its  wonderful  walls,  its 
curious  old  streets — looking  like  set  scenes  in  a  theatre  to 
American  eyes — glimpses  of  the  iJcaceful  Dee,  glimpses  of 
Curson  Park,  with  its  stately  villas  ;  away  for  miles  over  a 
country  road,  then  Chesholm  at  Unee  in  the  morning, 
silent  and  asleep.  Presently  an  endless  stretch  of  ivied 
wall  appears  in  view,  inclosing  a  primeval  forest,  it  seems 
to  Ivh'tli  ;  and  Lady  Helena  sits  up  and  rubs  her  eyes,  and 
says  it  is  Catheron  Royals.  The  girl  leans  forward  and 
strains  her  eyes,  but  can  make  out  nothing  in  the  darkness 
save  that  long  line  of  wall  and  waving  trees.  This  is  to  be 
Trixy's  home,  she  thinks — happy  'I'rixy  !  Half  an  hour 
more  of  rapid  driving,  and  they  are  at  Powyss  Place,  and 
their  journey  is  at  an  end. 

They  emerge  from  the  chill  darkness  of  dawning  day  into 


IQO 


AL.iS  FOR    7A'/X.' 


a  1)1.17.6  of  light — into  avast  and  stately  entrance-hall.     A' 
long  tile  of  servants  are  drawn  up  to  receive  them.     And 
"  Welcome  to  Powyss  Phice,"  Lady  Helena  says  with  kind 
courtesy.     "  I  can  only  wish  your  visit  may  be  as  pleasant 
to  you  as  you  made  mine  in  New  York." 

Without  changing  their  dresses,  ihey  arc  ushered  into  a 
lofty  and  handsomo  dining-room.  More  brilliant  lights, 
more  silent,  respcctfid  servants,  a  round  table  luxuriously 
spread.  They  sit  down  ;  forget  they  are  tired  and  sleepy  ; 
eat,  drink,  and  are  merry;  ami  it  is  five,  and  ([uite  day,  be- 
fore they  were  shown  up  to  their  rooms.  Then,  hasty  dis- 
robing, hasty  lying  down,  and  all  are  at  peace  in  the  land 
of  dreams. 

Next  day,  somewhere  about  noon,  Miss  Stuart,  clicking 
along  in  her  narrow-soled,  preposterously  high-heeled  boots, 
over  a  polished  oaken  corridor,  as  black  as  ebony,  and  sev- 
eral degrees  more  slippery  than  ice,  lost  her  footing,  as 
nnght  be  imagined,  and  came  down,  with  an  unearthly 
screech,  on  one  ankle.  Of  course  the  ankle  was  sprained  ; 
of  course  every  one  flew  to  the  rescue.  Sir  Victor  was  first 
on  the  field,  and  in  Sir  V^ictor's  arms  Miss  Stuart  was  lifted, 
and  borne  back  to  her  room.  Luckily  it  was  near,  or  even 
Sir  Victor's  chivalry  and  muscular  development  would  not 
have  been  equal  to  it,  for  Trix  was  a  "  fine  woman."  The 
ankle  was  bathed  and  bandaged,  the  invalid's  breakfast 
brought  up — everything  done  for  her  comfort  that  it  was 
possible  to  do  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  their  fussinp,  having 
cried  a  great  deal.  Miss  Stuart  suf'denly  dropped  off  asleep. 
Edith  came  out  of  the  room  looking  pale  and  tired,  la 
the  slippery  i)assage  she  encountered  Sir  Victor  waiting. 

"  I  have  waylaicl  you  on  ])urpose.  Miss  Darrell,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "  lest  you  should  meet  with  a  misha[)  too.  A  car- 
pet shall  be  placed  here  immediately.  You  look  pale — are 
yon  ill?" 

There  was  a  solicitude  in  his  face,  a  tremulous,  suppressed 
tenderness  in  the  commonplace  question,  a  look  in  his  eyes 
that  had  no  business  in  the  eyes  of  another  young  lady's 
betrothed.  But  Edith  felt  too  fagged  and  spiritless  just  at 
present  to  notice. 

"  1  feel  well  enough  ;  nothing  is  ever  the  matter  with  me  ; 


ALAS  FOR   mix  I 


191 


■hall.     A  ■ 
in.     And 
villi  kind 
pleasant 

!d  into  a 
It  lights, 
xiiriously 

sleepy  ; 

lay,  bo- 
as ty  dis- 
ihe  land 

clicking 
id  boots, 
and  sev- 
'^ting,  as 
mearthly 
p rained ; 
was  first 
as  lifted, 
or  even 
:)uld  not 
I  lie 
)reakfast 
t  it  was 
,  having 
"  asleep, 
•cd.     Jn 
ing. 
he  said, 

A  car- 
dc — are 

pressed 

liis  eyes 

g  lady's 

just  at 

til  me ; 


but  I  am  rather  stupid.  Stupidity,"  she  said,  with  her  old 
laugh,  "  is  fast  becoming  my  normal  state." 

"You  will  come  with  me  for  a  walk,  will  you  not?"  he 
asked.  "The  park  is  very  well  worth  seeing.  To-morrow, 
Miss  Stuart's  s|)rain  permitting,  we  will  all  visit  Catlieron 
Royals.  Do  come,  Miss  Darrell ;  it  will  do  you  a  world  of 
good." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went.  What  difference  did 
it  make?  Trix  wouldn't  be  j'-alous  now.  What  difference 
did  anything  make,  for  that  matter?  She  was  dull  and  low- 
si)irited  ;  she  needed  a  walk  in  the  fine  fresh  air.  So  they 
went  on  that  fateful  walk,  that  walk  that  was  to  be  like  no 
otiier  in  all  Edith  Darrell's  life. 

It  was  a  jierfect  Mayday,  an  English  May  day  ;  the  grass, 
green  beyond  all  ordinary  greenness,  the  fragrant  hawthorn 
hedges  scenting  the  air,  the  thrush  and  the  linnet  singing  in 
the  trees,  cowslii)s  and  daisies  dotting  the  sward.  A  fresh, 
cool  breeze  swept  over  the  uplands,  and  brought  a  faint 
trace  of  lil'e  and  color  into  Edith's  dark  pale  cheeks. 

"This  is  the  Lime  Walk — the  prettiest  at  I'owyss  Place, 
to  my  mind."  This  was  the  young  baronet's  first  common- 
place remark.  "If  you  will  ascend  the  eminence  yonder. 
Miss  Darrell,  I  think  I  can  point  out  Catheron  Royals;  that 
is,  if  you  t^hink  it  worth  the  trouble," 

It  was  ail  the  same  to  Edith — the  Lime  Walk,  the  emi- 
nence, or  any  other  quarter  of  the  park.  She  took  Sir 
Victor's  arm,  as  he  seemed  to  expect  it,  and  went  with  him 
slowly  up  the  elevation.  Pale,  weary,  listless,  she  might  be, 
but  how  charmingly  pretty  she  looked  in  the  sparkling  sun- 
shine, the  soft  wind  blowing  back  her  loose  brown  hair, 
kindling  into  deeper  light  her  velvety-brown  eyes,  bringing 
a  sea-siiell  pink  into  each  creamy  cheek.  IJeautiful  beyond 
all  ordinavy  beauty  of  womanhood,  it  seemed  to  Sir  Victor 
Catheron. 

"It  is  a  wonderfully  pretty  place,"  she  said.  "I  should 
think  you  English  people,  whose  ancestors,  time  out  of 
mind,  liave  lived  and  died  here,  would  grow  to  love  every 
ivy-clad  stone,  every  brave  old  tree.  If  I  were  not  Alex- 
ander 1  would  be  Diogenes — if  I  were  not  an  American  gu  1, 
I  would  be  an  English  miss." 

She  laughed  and  looked  up  at  hinj,  her  spirits  rising  in 


m 


ALAS  FOR    TRIXI 


the  sunshine  and  the  free,  fresh  air.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  face— [xissionate  admiration,  ])assionate  hjve, 
written  in  them  far  too  plainly  for  any  i^irl  on  earth  not  to 
read.     And  yet — he  had  proposed  to  'I'rix. 

"Yon  would?"  he  eagerly  exclaimed.  "Miss  Darrell, 
do  I  understand  you  to  say  you  coulil  live  in  iMiglaiid  all 
your  life — give  up  America  and  your  friends,  and  pass  your 
iifehere?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  It  would  be  no  great  sacrifice.  Apart  from  my  father, 
there  isn't  a  soul  in  all  wide  America  I  care  a  farthing  for, 
and  your  English  homes  are  very  charming." 

The  last  barrier  broke  down.  He  had  not  meant  to 
speak — he  had  meant  to  be  very  prudent  and  formal — to 
tell  Lady  Helena  first,  to  refer  the  nutter  to  Mr.  Stuart 
next.  Now  all  prudence  and  formality  were  swept  away. 
Her  hands  were  in  his — he  was  speaking  with  his  whole 
heart  in  every  word. 

"  Then  stay  and  share  an  English  home — share  mine 
Edith,  I  love  you — I  have  loved  you,  1  think,  since  I  saw 
you  first.     Will  you  be  my  wife  ?  " 

Alas  for  Trix  ! — that  was  Edith's  first  thought.  To  burst 
out  laughing — that  was  Edith's  first  impulse.  Not  in  tri- 
umph or  exultation — just  at  this  moment  she  felt  neither — 
but  at  the  awful  blunder  Trix  had  made ;  for  Trix  had 
made  a  blunder,  that  was  clear  as  day,  elsk  Sir  Victor 
Catheron  had  never  said  those  words,  y 

"I  meant  to  have  spoken  to  Lady  Helena  and  Mr.  Stuart 
first,"  Sir  Victor  went  on ;  "  but  that  is  all  over  now.  I 
can't  wait  longer;  I  must  take  my  sentence  from  your  lips. 
I  love  you  !  What  more  can  I  say  ?  You  are  the  first  my 
'il)s  have  ever  said  it  to — the  first  my  heart  has  ever  felt  it 
for.     Edith,  tell  me,  may  I  hope  ?  " 

She  stood  silent.  They  were  on  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
Away,  far  off,  she  could  see  the  waving  trees  and  tall  chim- 
neys of  a  stately  mansion — Catheron  Royals,  no  doubt. 
It  looked  a  very  grand  and  noble  place  ;  it  might  be  her 
home  for  life — she  who,  in  one  sense,  was  homeless.  A 
baronet  stood  beside  her,  offering  her  rank  and  wealth — she, 
|)enniless,  pedigreeless  Edith  Darrell  I  All  the  dreams  of 
life  were  being  realized,  and  in  this  hour  she  felt  neither 


ALAS  FOR   TRIXl 


193 


triumph  nor  elation.  She  stood  and  listened,  the  sunlight  on 
her  gravely  beautiful  face,  with  vague  wonder  at  herself  for 
her  apathy. 

"Kditli!"  he  cried  out,  "don't  tell  nic  I  am  too  late — 
that  some  one  has  been  bef()re  me  and  won  your  heart.  I 
couhlii  tW.z.\'\\\  Your  cousin  assured  me  that  when  I  si)oke 
tlie  answer  would  b^;  favorable.  I  spoke  to  her  that  niijiit 
in  Killarney— I  did  not  mention  your  name,  but  she  innler- 
stoud  me  immediate!).  I  told  her  I  meant  to  speak  as 
soon  as  we  reached  Enj^  nd.  I  asked  her  if  she  tliought 
there  was  hope  for  me,  ant.  she — " 

The  ])assionate  eagernesh,  the  jiassionate  love  and  fear 
within  him  checked  his  words  suddenly.  He  stopped  for  a 
moment,  and  turned  away. 

"  O  Trixy  !  Tri.xy  !  "  was  lulith's  thought  ;  and  ridicu- 
lous and  out  of  place  as  the  emotion  was,  her  only  desire 
still  was  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to  laugh  outright. 
Wliat  a  horrible — wliat  an  unheard-of  blunder  the  child  had 
made ! 

She  stood  tracing  figures  on  the  grass  with  the  point  of 
her  parasol,  feeling  strangely  apathetic  still.  If  her  life  had 
depended  on  it,  she  could  hardly  have  accepted  Sir  Victor 
then,  liy  and  by  she  might  feel  half  wild  with  exultation — 
not  now. 

He  waited  for  the  answer  that  did  not  come.  Then  he 
turned  from  her,  pale  with  desi)air. 

"I  see  how  it  is,"  he  said,  .ying,  not  quite  successfully, 
to  steady  his  voice  ;  "  I  am  too  late.  You  love  your  cousin, 
and  are  engaged  to  him.     I  feared  it  all  along." 

The  brown  starry  eyes,  lifted  slowly  from  the  grass  and 
looked  at  him. 

"My  cousin?  You  mistake.  Sir  Victor  ;  I  am  engaged 
to  no  one.  I " — she  set  her  lips  suddenly  and  looked  away 
at  the  trees  and  the  turrets  of  Catheron  Royals,  shining  in 
the  brilliant  sun — "  I  love  no  one." 

"  No  one,  Edith  !     Not  even  me  ?  " 

"Not  even  you,  Sir  Victor.  How  could  I?  Why  should 
I  ?     I  never  dreamed  of  tuis." 

"Never  dreamed  of  this!"  he  repeated,  in  amaze; 
"  when  you  must  have  seen — nmst  have  known — " 

She  interrupted  him,  a  faint  smile  curling  her  lips. 
9 


tm 


ALAS  FOR    TRIX! 


**  I  thought  it  was  Trixy,"  she  said. 

"Miss  Stuart  !  Then  she  has  told  you  nothinfj  of  that 
night  at  Killaincy — I  really  iiiKwined  she  had.  Miss  Stuart 
has  been  my  kind  friend,  niyone  confidante  and  sympathizer. 
No  sister  could  be  kinder  in  her  encouragement  and  com- 
fort than  she.'' 

"O  i)oor  Trix — a  sister!"  Kdith  thought,  and  in  spite 
of  eveiy  effort,  the  laugh  she  strove  so  hard  to  suppress 
(linii)led  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  '*  Woiit  there  be  a 
scene  when  you  hear  all  this  !  " 

"  For  pity's  sake,  ICdith,  speak  to  me  !  "  the  young  man 
exclaimed.  "  1  love  you — my  life  will  be  miserable  with- 
v)Ut  you.  If  you  are  free,  why  may  1  not  ho])e  ?  Sec!  \ 
don't  even  ask  you  to  love  me  now.  I  will  wait  ;  I  will  be 
l)atient.     My  love  is  so  great  that  it  will  win  yours  in  return. 

0  darling !  say  you  will  be  my  wife." 

Her  hands  were  in  his.  The  fervor,  the  passion  within 
him  almost  frightened  her. 

"  Sir  Victor,  I — I  hardly  know  what  to  say.  I  wonder 
that  you  care  for  me.     I  wonder  you  want   to   marry  me. 

1  am  not  your  equal ;  1  have  neither  rank,  nor  wealth,  nor 
descent. 

"  You  have  the  beauty  and  the  grace  of  a  goddess — the 
goodness  of  an  angel;  I  ask  nothing  more.  You  are  the 
mate  of  a  prince ;  and  I  love  you.  Everything  is  said  in 
that." 

"  Lady  Helena  will  never  consent." 

"Lady  Helena  will  consent  to  anything  that  will  make 
me  happy.  The  whole  happiness  or  misery  of  my  life  lies 
in  your  hands.  Don't  say  no,  Edith — don't,  for  Heaven's 
sake.  I  could  not  bear  it — I  cannot  lose  you  ;  J.  7oill  not !  " 
he  cried,  almost  fiercely. 

She  smiled  faintly  again,  and  that  lovely  rose-pink  blush 
of  hers  deepened  in  her  cheeks.  It  was  very  nice  indeed  to 
be  wooed  in  this  fiery  fashion. 

"  J^or/{:s  forf  una  J  urn  f,'' she  i^3.k],  laughing.  "I  leaned 
enough  Latin,  you  see,  to  know  that  fortune  assists  the 
brave.  People  who  won't  have  'no'  for  an  answer  must 
have  'yes,'  of  course." 

"And  it  is  'yes!'  Edith—" 

"  Be  quiet,  Sir  Victor;  it  is  not  'yes'  just  yet,  neither  is 


ALAS  FOR   TRTXl 


195 


it  *  no.'  You  must  let  me  think  all  this  over ;  my  head  is 
gickly  with  your  vehemence.  Give  me — let  n)e  see — until 
to-morrow.     1  can't  answer  now." 

"  15ut,  Edith—" 

♦'  That  much  is  due  to  nie,"  she  interposed,  proudly  ; 
"  remember,  I  have  not  expected  this.  You  have  surprised 
me  (his  morning  more  than  I  can  say.  I  am  proud  and 
grateful  for  your  i)reference  and  tlie  honor  you  liave  done 
me,  but — I  am  honest  with  you — I  don't  love  you." 

"  But  you  love  no  one  else.     Tell  me  that  again,  Kdith  !  " 

She  grew  pale  suddenly.  Again  she  looked  "ly  from 
him  over  the  sunlit  slopes  befo^-j  her. 

"  I  am  a  very  selfish  and  '.^.-artless  sort  of  girl,  I  am 
afraid,"  she  answered.  "I  don't  know  that  it  is  in  me  to 
love  any  one  as  I  ought — certainly  not  as  you  lovo  me.  If 
you  take  me,  you  shall  take  me  at  my  true  value.  1  am  not 
an  angel — ah,  no  ;  the  farthest  in  the  world  from  it — the 
most  selfish  of  the  selfish.  1  like  you  very  nnich  ;  it  is  not 
hard  to  do  that.  To  be  your  wife  would  be  my  highest 
honor,  but  still  I  must  have  time.  Come  to  me  to-morrow. 
Sir  Victor,  any  time,  and  you  shall  have  your  answer.  Don't 
say  one  word  more  until  then.     Now  let  us  go  back." 

He  bowed  and  offered  his  arm.  She  took  it,  and  in  pro- 
found silence  they  walked  back.  The  one  topic  that  filled 
him,  heart  and  soul,  strength  and  mind,  was  forbidden — it 
was  simply  impossible  for  him  to  speak  of  any  other.  For 
EdiUi,  she  walked  calmly  beside  him — her  mind  a  serene 
blank. 

They  reached  Powyss  Place — they  entered  the  drawing- 
room.  All  were  there — Tri.xy  lying  on  a  sofli,  pale  and  in- 
teresting, Lady  Helena  beside  her,  Charley  lounging  in  the 
recess  of  a  sunny  window.  All  eyes  turned  upon  the  new- 
comers, Trix's  with  suspicious  jealousy.  If  Sir  Victor  were 
in  love  with  herself,  was  not  his  fitting  place  by  her  side  in 
this  trying  hour,  iristead  of  meandering  about  w.th  Ditliy  ? 
And  what  business  had  Dithy  monopolizing  another  girl's 
lover  ? 

"  I  think  I  shall  ride  over  to  Drexel  Court  between  this 
and  dinner,"  Sir  Victor  said.     "  I  promised  Hampton — " 

Lady  Helena  laughed  and  interrupted  : 

"  And  Lady  Gwendoline  is  there — I  understand.     Go  by 


196 


ALAS  FOR   TRIXI 


all  means,  Victor,  and  give  Gwendoline  my  love.     Wc  shall 
exjiect  you  back  to  dinner." 

The  young  man  colored  like  a  girl.  He  glanced  uneasily 
at  Edith,  but  Miss  Darrell  had  taken  up  a  photograph  bo(^k 
of  literary  celebrities,  and  was  immersed  therein. 

Would  she  understand  lyui,  he  wondered — would  siie 
know  it  was  because  he  could  not  endure  the  suspense  at 
home  ?  How  should  he  drag  through  all  the  long,  heavy 
hours  between  this  and  to-morrow  ?  And  when  to-morrow 
came,  if  her  answer  were  tiol  He  set  his  teeth  at  the 
thought — it  could  not  be  no — it  should  not  I  She  loved  no 
one  else — she  must  learn  to  love  him. 

Captr'n  Hammond  and  Charley  betook  themselves  to  the 
billiard  Trixy  turned  her  suspicious  eyes  upon  her 

cousin. 

"  Wnere  were  you  and  Sir  Victor  all  day,  Edith  ?  " 

"  I  and  Sir  Victor  have  not  been  any  where  all  day, 
Beatrix.  During  the  last  hour  we  have  been  walking  in  the 
grounds." 

"  What  were  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Many  things,"  Miss  Darrell  responded,  promptly. 
"  The  beauty  of  the  prospect — the  comfort  of  English  homes, 
and  the  weather,  of  course.  If  1  understood  short-hand, 
and  had  been  aware  of  your  anxiety  on  the  subject,  I  miglit 
have  taken  notes  of  our  conversation  for  your  benefit." 

"  Did  you  talk  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  believe  your  name  was  mentioned." 

"Dith!"  in  a  whisper,  and  raising  herself  on  her  elbow, 
*'  did  Sir  Victor  say  any  thing  about — about — you  know 
what." 

"  He  did  not  say  one  word  about  being  in  love  with  you, 
or  marrying  you,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  Now  please 
stop  catechising,  and  let  me  look  at  the  pictures." 

Twilight  fell  —dinner  hour  came  ;  with  it  Sir  Victor.  He 
looked  i)ale,  anxious,  tired.  He  answered  all  his  aunt's  in-  ' 
quiries  about  the  Drexel  family  in  the  briefest  jjossible  man- 
ner. His  over-fond  aunt  lucked  at  him  a  little  uneasily — 
he  was  so  unlike  himself,  and  presently  drew  him  aside,  after 
dinner,  and  spoke. 

"  Victor  what  is  the  matter  ?    Are  you  ill  ?  " 


ALAS  FOR   TRIXt 


w 


He 


"111?  No.  My  dear  aunt,"  smiling,  "don't  wear  that 
alarmed  face — there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

•'Tliere  is  something  the  matter  with  yon.  You  are  pale, 
you  are  silent,  you  eat  nothing.     Victor,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  to-!norrow,"  he  answered.  "  Spare  me 
imtil  tlien.  1  am  anxious,  I  admit,  but  not  even  to  you  can 
I  tell  why  to-night.  You  shall  know  all  about  it  to- 
morrow." 

No  glimmer  of  the  truth  dawned  upon  her  as  she  left  him. 
She  wondered  what  it  could  be,  but  she  would  not  press  him 
further. 

For  Iv.liih — she  was  in  that  mood  of  serene  recklessness 
still,  or  tomorrow  she  neither  cared  to  think,  nor  tried  to 
think.  Tlie  liile  of  her  life  was  at  its  flood  ;  whither  the 
stream  might  bear  iier  after  this  night,  just  now,  she  neither 
knew  nor  cued.  I'^or  the  |)resent  she  was  free,  to-morrow 
she  might  be  a  bondwoman.  Her  fetters  would  be  of  gold 
and  roses  ;  none  the  less  though  woidd  they  be  fetters. 

She  i)layed  chess  with  Sir  Victor — his  hand  trembled — 
hers  was  steady.  Captain  Hammond  asked  her  for  a  Scotch 
song.  Slie  went  to  the  piano  and  sang,  never  more  clearly 
and  sweetly  in  her  life. 

"Sing  '  Charley  he's  my  darling,'  "  suggested  Trix,  malic- 
iously ;  "  it's  one  of  yoiir  favorites,  I  know." 

Charley  was  reposing  on  a  sofa  near — the  wax  lights 
streaming  over  his  handsome,  vl'^t:id  face. 

"  Yes,  sing  it,  Dithy,"  he  said  ;  "  it's  ages  since  you  sang 
it  for  me  now." 

"  And  1  may  never  sing  it  for  you  again,"  she  answered, 
with  a  careless  laugh  ;  "  one  so  soon  grows  tired  of  these  old 
songs." 

She  sang  it,  her  eyes  alight,  her  cheeks  flushing,  thrilling 
spirit  and  life  in  the  merry  words.  Sir  Victor  stood  beside 
her,  drinking  in  until  he  was  intoxicated  by  the  si)ell  of  her 
subtle  witchery, 

"  And  Cliarley  he's  my  darling — 
My  darling,  my  darling  ! " 

Edith's  contralto  tones  rang  out.  She  had  never  looked 
so  really  beautiful,  perhaps,  before  in  her  life — suppressed 
excitement  lent  her  such  sparkle  and  color.  She  tlnished 
her  song  and  arose.     And  presently  the  evening  was  over, 


198 


j4las  for  trix. 


and  it  was  half-past  cloven,  and  one  by  one  they  were  taking 
their  candles,  and  strif^j^lin;,'  off  to  bed. 

Edith  Daircll  did  noi  go  to  bed.  She  put  the  lights  away 
on  the  toilct-tabie  in  the  dressii'i^-ronin,  wrapped  something 
around  her  and  sat  down  by  the  winilow  to  tliiiik  it  out. 

Should  she  many  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  or  should  she 
not? 

She  cared  nothing  for  him-  othing  whatever — very  likely 
she  never  would.  She  ioven  Charley  Stuart  with  all  the 
power  of  her  heart,  and  just  at  present  it  seemed  to  her  she 
always  must,      i  hat  was  how  the  problem  stood. 

If  she  married  Sir  Vir:tor,  rank  and  wealth  beyond  all  her 
dreams  would  be  hers,  a  life  of  luxury,  all  the  joys  and  de- 
lights great  wealth  can  bring.  She  liked  pleasure,'  luxury, 
beauty,  rank.  For  love — well,  Sir  Victor  loved  her,  and  for 
a  woman  it  is  always  better,  safer,  to  be  loved  than  to 
love. 

That  was  one  phase  of  the  case.  Mere  was  the  other  : 
She  might  go  to  Charley  and  say.  "  Look  here-  -I  care 
for  you  so  much,  that  life  without  you,  isn't  worth  the  liv- 
ing. I  will  marry  you,  Charley,  whenever  you  like."  He 
would  make  her  his  wife.  Alone  in  darkness,  her  heart 
thrilled  as  she  thought  of  it — and  the  intensest  joy  of  life 
would  be  hers  for  a  while.  For  a  while.  'I'hey  would  be 
poor — his  father  would  cast  him  off — he  must,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  begin  to  work — the  old  story  of  pinching  and 
poverty,  of  darning  and  mending,  would  commence  over 
again  for  her,  poor  food,  poor  clothes,  all  the  untold  ugliness 
and  misery  of  penury.  Love  is  a  very  good  and  ])leasant 
thing,  but  not  when  bought  at  the  price  of  all  the  glory  and 
pleasure  of  the  world. 

She  turned  from  the  life  she  i)ictured  with  a  shudder  of 
abhorrence.  And  Charley  w.is  not  of  the  stuff  the  toilers  of 
the  earth  are  made.  She  would  never  spoil  his  life  for  him 
as  well  as  her  own — not  if  iier  heart  broke  in  giving  him  \\\). 
]}ut  it  would  not  break — wlio  breaks  her  heart  in  these  days  ? 
She  would  say  "  Yes"  to-morrow  to  Sir  Victor  Calheron. 

Then  for  a  moment  the  tiiread  of  thought  broke,  and  she 
sat  looking  blankly  out  al  the  soft  s[)ring  night. 

On  the  day  she  pledged  herself  to  Sir  Victor  she  must 
say  good-by  forever  to  Charley-  so  it  began  again.     One 


ALAS  FOR    riUX! 


199 


house  must  not  contain  them  hotli ;  Iicr  word,  her  plight 
must  be  kept  brif^ht  ami  untainisliod— *  Iharlcy  must  go. 

She  tried  to  think  wiiat  her  life  would  be  like  widiout  him. 
It  seemed  to  her,  slie  ccnild  think  of  110  time,  in  which  he  had 
not  belonged  to  her ;  all  llie  year-^  before  that  night  in  the 
snow  were  blank  and  void.  Ami  now,  for  all  lime,  she 
must  give  him  up. 

She  rose,  feeling  cold  and  cramped — she  undressed  with 
stiffened  fmgers,  and  went  to  bed.  .Slie  would  think  no 
more,  her  head  ached —  sIk  would  sleep  and  forget. 

She  did  sleep,  deeply,  dreamlesuly.  Tin;  sunlight  was 
l^ouring  into  her  room,  flooding  it  with  golden  radiance, 
when  she  awoke. 

She  sprang  uj) ;  her  heart  gave  one  bound  of  recollection 
and  rapture.  Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  asked  her  to  be  his 
wife. 

Doubt  was  at  an  end— hesitation  was  at  an  end. 

"  Colors  seen  by  candlelight 
Do  not  looU  the  same  by  day." 

Last  night  a  hair  might  have  turned  the  scale  and  made 
her  say  "  No,"  reckless  of  consequences — to-day  a  thousand 
Charleys  would  not  have  intUienced  her.  .She  would  be 
I-ady  Catheron. 

She  sang  as  she  dressed.  Not  the  May  sunshine  itself 
was  brigluer  than  her  face.  She  left  her  room,  she  walked 
down  the  corridor,  down  the  stairs,  and  out  upon  the  emer- 
ald green  lawn. 

A  well-known  figure,  in  a  gray  suit,  stood  a  few  yards  off, 
pacing  restlessly  about  and  smoking,  lie  flung  away  his 
cigar  and  hurried  upto  her.  One  glance  at  lier  smiling  face, 
was  enough,  his  own  flushed  deep  with  rapture. 

"  I  have  come  for  my  answer,"  he  crieci.  "  0  Edith, 
my  darling,  don't  let  it  be  '  No.'  " 

She  laughed  aloud  at  his  vehemence — it  was  the  sort  of 
wooing  she  liked. 

"  I  should  like  to  please  you,  Sir  Victor — what,  then,  shall 
it  be  ?  " 

"Yes!  a  thousand  times,  yes!  Edith,  my  love — my 
love — yes !  " 

She  was  s-  liling  still — she  looked  him  frankly  in  the  eyes 


200 


HOW  TRIX  TOOK  IT. 


as  no  woman  on  earth,  in  such  an  hour,  ever  looked  at  the 
man  she  loved.  She  laid  in  liis  one  slim,  brown,  ringless 
hand. 

"  Since  you  wish  it  so  much,  Sir  Victor,  let  it  be  as  you 
please.     Yes ! " 


CHAPTER  X. 


HOW  TRIX  TOOK   IT. 


A 


[IT  was  half-past  twelve,  by  all  the  clocks  and  watches 
of  Powyss  Place.  Miss  Stuart  sat  alone,  in  the 
pleasant  boudoir  or  sitting-room,  assigned  her,  her 
foot  on  an  ottoman,  a  novel  in  her  hand,  a  frown 
on  her  brow,  and  most  beautifully  dressed.  In  solitary  state, 
at  half-past  ten,  she  had  breakfasted,  waited  upon  by  the 
trimmest  of  English  handmaidens  in  smiles  and  lace  cap. 
The  breakfast  had  been  removed  for  over  an  hour,  and  still 
Miss  Stuart  sat  alone. 

Her  mamma  had  called  to  see  her,  so  had  Lady  Helena, 
but  they  did  not  count.  She  wanted  somebody  else,  and 
that  somebody  did  not  come.  Her  novel  was  interesting 
and  new,  but  she  could  not  read ;  her  troubles  were  too 
many  and  great. 

First,  there  was  her  ankle  that  pained  her,  and  Trixy  did 
not  like  pain.  Secondly,  it  was  quite  impossible  she  could 
ve\iture  to  stand  upon  it  for  the  next  three  days,  and  who 
was  to  watch  Sir  Victor  during  those  three  days  ?  Thirdly, 
next  week  Lady  Helena  gave  a  large  party,  and  at  that  party 
it  was  morally  and  physically  impossible  she  could  play  any 
other  part  than  that  of  wall-flower ;  she  who  was  one  of  the 
best  waltzers,  and  loved  waltzing  letter  than  any  other  girl 
in  New  York.  Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  an  absorbing 
novel  failed  to  absorb  her  ? 

The  door  opened  and  Edith  came  in.  At  all  times  and 
in  all  array.  Miss  Darrell  must  of  necessity  look  handsome. 
This  morning  in  crisp  muslin  and  rosc-colored  ribbons,  a 
tlush  on  her  cheeks  and  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  Miss  Darrell 
was   something  more  than  handsome — she  was  beautiful. 


HO IV  TRIX  TOOK  IT. 


201 


Something,  that  v/as  more  the  memory  of  a  smile,  than  a  smile 
itself,  lingered  on  her  lips — she  was  so  brightly  pretty,  so 
fresh,  so  fair,  that  it  was  a  pleasure  only  to  look  at  her. 

"Good  morning,  Trixy,"  she  said.  "  How  is  our  poor 
dear  ankle?     It  doesn't  hurt  nnich,  I  hope?" 

She  came  up  behind  Miss  Stuart's  chair,  put  her  arms 
around  her  neck,  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
The  frown  on  Trixy's  face  deepened — it  was  tlie  last  straw 
that  broke  the  camel's  back,  to  see  Edith  Darrell  looking  so 
brightly  handsome,  privileged  to  go  where  she  pleased,  while 
she  was  chained  to  this  horri'  chair. 

"It  docs  hurt,"  Trixy  responded  crossly.  "I  wish  I  had 
never  had  an  ankle,  sooner  than  go  spraining  it  this  way. 
The  idea  of  horrid  floors,  like  black  looking-glasses,  and  slip- 
perier than  a  skating-rink.  Edith,  how  long  is  it  since  you 
got  up?" 

"  Now  for  it ! "  thought  Edith,  and  the  smile  she  strove  to 
repress,  dim])led  her  sunny  face.  Luckily,  standing  behind 
Trix's  chair,  Trix  did  not  see  it. 

"  How  long?  Oh,  since  nine  o'clock.  You  know  I'm  not 
a  very  early  riser." 

"  Did  you  go  straight  down  to  breakfast  ?  " 

"The  breakfast  hour  was  ten.  It  doesn't  take  me  all 
that  time  to  dress." 

"  Where  did  you  go  then  ?  " 

"  I  walked  in  the  grounds." 

"Edith!"  with  sudden  sharpness,  "did  you  see  Sir 
Victor?" 

"  Yes,  I  saw  Sir  Victor." 

"  Where  ?     In  the  grounds  too  ?  " 

"  In  the  grounds  too — smoking  a  cigar." 

"  Edith  !"  the  sharr>nes,-i  changing  to  suspicion  and  alarm. 
"  You  w(.'re  with  Sir  Victor  !  " 

"  I  was  with  Sir  Victor.  That  is  to  say.  Sir  Victor  was 
with  7«c." 

"  liothcr  !     What  did  you  talk  about?     Did  he  ask  after 
'me?" 

"  Ye-e-es,"  Edith  answered  doubtfully — the  fact  being  Sir 
Victor  had  utterly  forgotten  Miss  Stuart's  existence  in  the 
dizzy  rapture  of  his  acceptance — ^"he  asked  for  you,  of 
course." 

0* 


202 


HOW  TRIX   TOOK  IT. 


"Was  that  all?  IR^s  a  pretty  attentive  host,  I  don't 
think,"  cried  Trixy,  wilh  bitterness,  "having  a  young  lady 
laid  np  by  the  Ic — the  ankle  in  Iiis  house,  and  never  so  much 
as  calling  to  see  if  she  is  dead  or  alive  !  " 

"  My  dearest  Tiix,"  said  Kdith,  struggling  with  a  laugh, 
"gentlemen  don't  call  upon  young  ladies  in  their  chambers 
at  break  of  day,  even  though  they  have  a  sprained  ankle. 
It  isn't  de  rigair" 

"  De  rigger  be  blowed  !  It  isn't  my  chamber;  it's  my 
private  jiailor  ;  and  aristocratic  as  we  Iiavegot  lately,  I  don't 
think  half-past  twelve  is  the  break  of  day.  luiith,  upon  your 
word,  did  !ie  say  anything  al)out — about — you  know  what  ?  " 

"  Marrying  you?     No,  Trixy,  not  a  word." 

She  put  her  arms  closer  around  poor  Trixy's  neck,  and 
hid  her  face  in  Trixy's  clicstnut  hair. 

"Trix,  pet,  don't  you  think  tliere  may  have  been  a 
little — just  a  little,  misunderstanding  that  night  at  Kil- 
larney  ? " 

"  Misunderstanding  !  I  don't  understand  iw/,  Editli,"  Miss 
Stuart  exclaimed,  in  increasing  alarm.  "  For  goodness'  sake 
come  round  where  I  can  see  you,  and  don't  stand  there  like 
a  sort  of  '  Get  thee  behind  mc,  Satan.'  I  like  to  look  peo- 
ple in  the  face  when  I  talk  to  them." 

"In  one  moment,  dear ;  ])k'ase  don't  be  cross.  I  have 
something  that  is  not  pleasiint  to  say  that  jw^  won't  like.  I 
am  afraid  to  tell  you.  Trix,  there  7Ckis  a  misunderstanding 
that  night." 

"  I  don't  see  how  ;  I  don't  believe  tliere  was.  Edith  Dar- 
rell,  wl  it  do  you  mean  ?  He  asked  ine  to  marry  him — at 
least  he  told  me  he  was  in  love  with  me  in  a  stupid,  round- 
about way,  and  asked  me  if  he  might  hope,  ami  if  there  was 
any  danger  of  a  refusal,  or  a  rival,  when  he  spoke  out,  and 
that  balderdash.  He  said  he  nieant  to  sjjeak  to  jki  and  mn, 
as  plain  as  print.  Now  how  coukl  there  be  a  misunderstand- 
ing in  all  that  ?  " 

"  It  was,  as  yon  say,  awfully  stupid  of  him,  but  tka-se  Eng- 
lishmen have  such  tliffcront  ways  from  what  we  are  acciis- 
tomed  to.  There  was  a  misunderstanding,  I  repeat.  He 
means  to  speak  to  your  fatlier  and  mother  to-day,  but — not 
about  you." 

*'  Edith  !  "     Trix  half  sprung  up,  i)ale  as  death  and  with 


HO  IV  TRIX  TOOK  IT. 


20$ 


flashing   eyes.     "  VVliat  do  you  mean  ?     Speak  out,  I  tell 

you  1 "'      _ 

"  O  Trix."  She  twined  her  arms  otill  closer  around  her 
nock,  and  laid  her  check  coaxinyly  alongside  of  Miss  Stu- 
art's. "  There  has  been  a  horrid  mistake.  All  the  time  in 
that  boat  on  Killarney  lake  he  was  talking  of — me  !" 

"  Of — you  !  "  The  two  words  drop  from  Trixy  's  ashen 
lips. 

"Of  me,  dear,  and  he  thinks  at  this  moment  that  you  un- 
derstood him  so.  Trixy — don't  be  angry  with  me — how 
could  I  help  it — he  proposed  to  me  yesterday  afternoon." 

"  Projioscd  to  you  yesterday  afternoon  !  "  Trix  repeats 
tlie  words  like  one  who  has  been  stunned  by  a  blow,  in  a 
dazed  sort  of  tone.     "  And  you — refused  him,  Edith  ?" 

"  Accepted  him,  Trixy.  I  said  yes  to  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
this  morning  in  the  grounds." 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  Tlie  ticking  of  the  little  Swiss 
clock,  the  joyous  warble  of  the  thrushes,  the  soft  rustle  of 
the  trees  sounding  preternaturally  loud.  Ikatrix  Stuart  sat 
white  to  tlie  lips,  with  anger,  n)ortification,  amaze,  disap- 
l)oiiitment.  Then  she  covered  iier  face  with  lier  hands,  and 
bur>t  into  a  vehement  flood  of  tears. 

"Trix!  dear  Trix!"  lulith  exclaimed,  shocked  and 
pained  ;  "  gootl  Heaven,  don't  cry  !  I'rix,  dearest,  1  never 
knew  you  were  in  love  with  him." 

"  [n  love  with  him  !"  cried  Trix,  looking  up,  her  eyes 
flashing  through  her  tears,  "  the  odious  little  wishy-washy, 
drawling  coxcomb  !  No,  I'm  not  in  love  with  him — not 
likely — but  what  business  had  he  to  go  talking  like  that,  and 
hemming  and  hawing,  and  hinting,  and  — (jji  I  "  cried  Trix, 
with  a  sort  of  vicious  screech,  "  1  should  like  to  tear  his  eyes 
out  I" 

"  I  dare  say  you  would — the  desire  is  both  natural  and 
l^ropcr,"  answered  J''dith,  smothering  a  second  desire  to 
laugh;  "but,  under  the  circumstances,  not  admissible.  It 
was  a  stupid  proceeiling,  no  doubt,  his  speaking  to  you  at 
all,  but  you  see  the  poor  fellow  thinks  you  understood  him, 
and  meant  it  for  the  best." 

"  Thought  I  understood  him  I  "  retorted  Miss  Stuart,  with 
a  vengeful  glare.  "Oh,  shouldn't  1  like  to  make  him  under- 
stand me  !     Tlie  way  he  went  on  that  night,  kissing  my 


204 


now  TRIX   TOOK  IT. 


hand,  and  calling  me  Beatrix,  and  talking  of  speaking  to 
pa,  and  meaning  you  all  the  time,  is  enough — enough  to 
drive  a  person  stark,  staving  mad.  All  Englishmen  are 
fools — there  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Stuart,  sparks  of  fire  drying 
up  lier  tears,  "and  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  the  biggest  fool  of 
the  lot!" 

"  What,  Trix  !  for  wanting  to  marry  me?" 

"  Yes,  for  wanting  to  marry  you.  You,  who  don't  care  a 
bad  cent  for  him  ! " 

"  How  many  bad  cents  did  you  care.  Miss  Stuart,  when 
you  were  so  willing  to  be  his  wife?" 

"  More  than  yon.  Miss  Darrell,  for  at  least  I  was  not  in 
love  with  any  one  else."' 

"And  who  may  Miss  Darrell  be  in  love  with,  pray?" 

"With  Charley,"  answered  Trix,  her  face  still  afire. 
"  Deny  it  if  you  dare  !  in  love  with  Charley,  and  he  with 
you." 

She  was  looking  u|)  at  her  rival,  her  angry  gray  eyes  so 
like  Cha. ley's  as  she  spoke,  in  everything  but  expression, 
that  for  an  instant  Edith  was  disconcerted.  Slie  could  not 
meet  them.     For  once  in  her  life  her  own  eyes  fjU. 

'■  Are  we  going  to  (juarrel,  Trix  ?  Is  it  worth  while,  for 
a  man  you  have  decided  we  neither  of  us  care  for — we  who 
have  bi'eii  like  sisters  so  long  ?" 

"  Like  sisters  !  "  Trix  repeated  bitterly.  "  Edith,  I  won- 
der if  you  are  not  scheming  and  deceitful !  " 

"  Beatrix  !  " 

"Oh,  you  needn't  'Beatrix'  me!  I  mean  it.  I  believe 
there  has  been  double  dealing  in  this.  He  paid  attention 
to  me  before  you  ever  came  to  New  York.  I  l)elieve  if  I 
hadn't  been  sea- sick  he  wou  d  have  proposed  to  me  on  the 
ship.  But  I  was  sea-sick, —  t's  always  my  luck  to  be  every- 
thing that's  miserable, — and  you  were  with  him  night  and 
day." 

"  Night  and  day  !     Good  gracious,  Trixy,  this  is  awful  !  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  pursued  Trix  loftily.  "You 
got  him  in  love  with  you.  Then,  all  the  way  to  Killarney 
you  flirted  with  Charley — poor  Cliarley — and  made  him 
jealous,  and  jealousy  finished  him.  You're  a  very  clever 
girl,  Edith,  and  I  wish  you  a  great  deal  of  joy." 

"  Thank  you  ;  you  say  it  as  if  you  did.     I  don't  take  the 


NOW  TRIX  TOOK  IT. 


205 


trouble  to  deny  your  charges  ;  they're  not  worth  it — they  are 
false,  and  you  know  them  to  be  so.  I  never  souglit  out  Sir 
Victor  Catheron,  either  in  New  York,  on  board  shii>,  or 
elsewhere.  If  he  had  been  a  prince,  instead  of  a  baronet,  I 
would  not  have  done  it.  I  have  borne  a  great  deal,  but 
even  you  may  go  too  far,  Trixy.  Sir  Victor  has  done  me 
the  honor  of  falling  in  love  with  nie — for  he  does  love  me, 
and  he  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife.  I  have  accepted  him, 
of  course  ;  it  was  quite  impossible  I  could  do  otherwise. 
If,  at  Killarney,  he  was  stupid,  and  you  made  a  blunder,  am 
I  to  be  held  accountable  ?  He  does  not  dream  for  a  mo- 
ment of  the  misunderstanding  between  you.  He  thinks  he 
made  his  meaning  as  clear  as  day.  And  now  I  will  leave 
you  ;  if  I  stay  longer  we  may  quarrel,  and  I — 1  don't  want 
to  quarrel  with  you,  Trixy." 

Her  voice  broke  suddenly.  She  turned  to  the  door,  and 
all  the  smallness  of  her  own  conduct  dawned  upon  Trix. 
Her  generous  heart — it  was  generous  in  spite  of  all  this — 
smote  her  with  remorse. 

"  Oh,  come  back,  Edith  ! "  she  said  ;  "  don't  go.  I 
won't  quarrel  with  you.  I'm  a  wretch.  It's  dreadfully 
mean  and  contemptible  of  me,  to  make  such  a  howling  about 
a  man  that  does  not  care  a  straw  for  me.  When  I  told  you, 
you  wished  me  joy.  Just  come  back  and  give  me  time  to 
catch  my  breath,  and  I'll  wish  you  joy  too.  But  it's  so  sud- 
den, so  unexpected.  O  Dithy,  1  thought  you  liked  Char- 
ley all  this  while  !  " 

How  like  Charley's  the  handsome  dark  gray  eyes  were  ! 
lulith  Darrell  cv/uld  not  meet  them  ;  she  turned  and  looked 
out  of  the  window. 

"  1  like  him,  certainly  ;  I  would  be  very  ungrateful  if  I  did 
not.     He  is  like  a  brother  to  me." 

"  A  brother  1  Oh,  bother,"  retorted  Trix,  with  immeas- 
urable scorn  and  dignity.  "  Edith,  honor  bright  '  Haven't 
you  and  Charley  been  in  love  with  each  other  these  two 
years  ?  " 

Edith  laughed. 

"  A  very  loading  question,  and  a  very  absurd  one.  I 
don't  think  it  is  in  either  your  brother  or  me  to  be  very 
deeply  in  love.  He  would  find  it  feverish  and  fatiguing — 
you  know  how  he  objects  to  fatigue  ;  and  I — well,  '  f  love  be 


206 


HO IV  TRIX  TOOK  IT. 


anything  like  what  one  reads  of  in  books,  an  all-absorbing, 
all  consuniing  i)assion  tiiat  won't  let  i)coi)le  cat  or  sleep,  I 
have  never  felt  it,  and  1  don't  want  to.  1  think  that  sort  of 
love  went  out  of  fashion  with  Amanda  Fitzallen.  You're  a 
sentimental  goose,  IMiss  Stuart,  and  havu  taken  Byron  and 
Miss  J.andon  in  too  huge  doses," 

"  I>ut  you  like  him,"  persisted  his  sister,  "don't  you, 
Dithy?" 

'•Like  him — like  him!"  Her  whole  face  lit  up  for  a 
second  with  a  light  that  made  it  lovely,  "Well,  yes,  'i'rix, 
I  don't  mind  owiiing  that  mucli — I  do  like  Charley — like 
liim  so  well  that  I  won't  marry  and  ruin  him,  For  it  means 
just  that,  IVixy — ruin.  The  day  we  become  anytliing  more 
than  friends  and  cousins  your  father  woulil  disinherit  him, 
and  your  father  isn't  tlie  heavy  father  of  the  comedy,  to 
rage  through  four  acts,  and  come  round  in  die  lift!),  v.-ith  his 
fortune  and  blessing.  Charley  and  1  'lave  common-sense, 
and  we  have  shaken  hands  and  agreed  to  be  good  friends  and 
cousins,  nothing  more." 

"What  an  admirable  thing  is  common-sense!  Does  Sir 
Victor  know  about  tlie  hand-shaking  and  the  cousinly  agree- 
ment ?" 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic,  ]>ealrix  ;  it  isn't  your  forte  !  I  have 
nothing  to  confess  to  Sir  Victor  when  I  am  married  to  him  ; 
neither  your  brother  nor  any  other  man  will  hold  tiie  i)lace 
in  my  heart  (such  as  it  is)  tliat  he  will,  lie  very  sure  of 
that." 

"Ah  !  such  as  it  is,"  puts  in  Trix  cynically  ;  "and  wlum 
is  it  to  be,  Dithy — the  wetiding  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Trix,  I  only  said  yes  this  morning.  Gentlemen 
don't  propose  and  fix  the  wedding-ilay  all  in  a  breaih.  It 
will  be  ages  from  now,  no  doubt.  Of  course  J.aily  Helena 
will  c!)ject." 

"  You  don't  mind  that  ?" 

"  Not  a  whit.  A  grand-aunt  is— a  grand-amit,  notliing 
more.  She  is  his  only  living  relative,  he  is  of  age,  able  to 
speak  antl  act  for  iiimsclf,  'I'he  true  love  of  any  good  man  » 
honors  the  woman  who  receives  il.  In  that  way  Sir  Victor 
Calheron  honors  me,  and  in  nootLjr.  I  have  neither  wealth 
nor  lineage  ;  in  all  other  things,  a.i  Cod  made  us,  1  am  his 
equal  !  " 


I/O IV  LADY  HELENA    TOOK  IT. 


207 


She  moved  to  the  door,  her  dark  eyes  shining,  her  head 
erect,  looking  in  her  beauty  and  her  i)iide  a  mate  for  a  king, 

"There  is  to  be  a  chiving-party  to  l'".asllake  Abbey,  after 
luncheon,"  slie  said;  "you  are  to  be  carried  down  to  the 
barouclie  and  ride  wilii  your  father  and  niodier,  and  Lady 
Helena — Charley  and  Captain  Hammond  for  your  cava- 
liers." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"Sir  Victor  drives  me." 

"Alone,  of  course?"  Trixy  says,  with  a  last  little  bitter 
sneer. 

"Alone,  of  course,"  Edith  answers  coldly.  Then  she 
opens  the  door  and  disappears. 


CHAPTICR  XI. 


now  LADY  nr.r,i:NA  took  it. 


UT  the  driving-i)arty  did  not  come  off.  The  ruins 
of  Kastlake  Abbey  were  unvisited  that  day,  at 
least.  I'Vjr  while  I'ldith  and  Trixy's  somewhat  un- 
pleasant interview  was  taking  place  in  one  part  of 
the  house,  an  equally  unpleasant,  anil  nuich  more  mysteri- 
ous, interview  was  taking  place  in  another,  and  on  the  same 
subject. 

l.ady  Helena  had  left  the  guests  for  awhile  and  gone  to 
her  own  rooms.  The  morning  post  had  come  in,  bringing 
her  several  letters.  One  in  particular  she  seized,  and  read 
with  nioie  eagerness  than  the  others,  dated  London,  begin- 
r.ing  "My  Dear  Aunt,"  and  signed.  "Inez."  While  she  sat 
absorbed  over  it,  in  deep  and  painful  thought  evidently, 
iIk  re  caine  a  tap  at  the  door ;  then  it  opened,  and  her 
nephew  came  in. 

She  crumpleil  her  letter  hurriedly  in  her  hand,  and  put  it 
out  of  sight.  She  lookeil  up  with  a  smile  of  welcome;  he 
was  the  "  api)le  of  her  eye,"  the  darling  of  her  life,  the 
Henjamin  of  her  childless  old  age — the  fair-haired,  pleasaut- 
fciced  young  baronet. 


208 


HOW  LADY  HELENA    TOOK  IT. 


"  Do  I  intrude  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Are  you  busy  ?  Are  your 
letters  very  important  this  morning?     If  so — " 

"Not  important  at  all.  Come  in,  Victor.  I  have  been 
wishing  to  speak  to  you  of  the  invitations  for  next  week's 
ball.  Is  it  concerning  the  driving-party  this  afternoon  you 
want  to  speak  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear  aunt ;  something  very  much  jileasanter 
than  all  the  driving-parties  in  the  world  ;  something  much 
more  important  to  me." 

She  looked  at  him  more  closely.  His  face  was  flushed, 
his  eyes  bright,  a  happy  smile  was  on  his  lips.  He  had  the 
look  of  a  man  to  whom  some  great  good  fortune  had  sud- 
denly come. 

"  Agreeal  ly  important,  then,  I  am  sure,  judging  by  your 
looks.     What  a  radiant  face  the  lad  has  ! " 

"  I  have  reason  to  look  radiant.  Congratulate  me,  Aunt 
Helena ;  I  am  the  happiest  man  the  wide  earth  holds." 

"  My  dear  Victor  !  " 

"  Cannot  you  guess  ?  "  he  said,  still  smiling  ;  "  I  always 
thought  female  relatives  were  particularly  sharp-sighted  in 
these  matters.  Must  I  really  tell  you  ?  Have  you  no  sus- 
picions of  my  errand  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  not,  indeed  ; "  but  she  sat  erect,  and  her  fresh- 
colored,  handsome  old  face  grew  pale.  "  Victor,  what  is  it  ? 
Pray  speak  out." 

"  Very  well.  Congratulate  me  once  more  ;  I  am  going  to 
be  married." 

He  stopped  short,  for  with  a  low  cry  that  was  like  a  cry 
of  fear.  Lady  Helena  rose  uj).  If  he  had  said  "  I  am  going 
to  be  hanged,"  the  consternation  of  her  face  could  not  have 
been  greater.  She  put  out  her  hand  as  though  to  ward  otf  a 
blow. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  said,  in  that  frightened  voice  ;  "  not  mar- 
ried.    For  God's  sake,  Victor,  don't  say  that  1" 

"  Lady  Helena  !  " 
,      He  sat  looking  at  her,  utterly  confounded. 

*'  It  can't  be  true,"  she  panted.  "  You  don't  mean  that. 
You  don't  want  to  be  married.  You  are  too  young — you 
are.  I  tell  you  I  won't  hear  of  it !  What  do  boys  like  you 
want  of  wives  ! — only  three-and-twenty  I  " 

He  laughed  good-humoredly. 


ffOW  LADY  I/ELENA    TOOK  IT. 


209 


"  My  dear  aunt,  boys  of  tiiree-and-twenty  are  tolerably 
well-grown  ;  it  isn't  a  bad  age  to  marry.  Why,  according 
to  Dc'brett,  my  father  was  only  three-and-twenty  when  he 
brought  home  a  wife  and  son  to  Catheron  Royals." 

She  sat  down  suddenly,  her  head  against  the  back  of  a 
chair,  her  fice  quite  white. 

"  Aunt  Helena,"  the  young  man  said  anxiously,  approach- 
ing lier,  "  I  have  startled  you  ;  I  have  been  too  sudden  with 
this.     You  look  quite  faint ;  what  shall  1  get  you  ?  " 

He  seized  a  carafe  of  water,  but  she  waved  it  away. 

"  Wait,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips  ;  "  wait.  Give  me 
time — let  nie  think.  It  was  sudden  ;  I  will  be  better  in  a 
monient." 

He  sat  down  feeling  uncommonly  uncomfortable.  He 
was  a  practical  sort  of  young  man,  with  a  man's  strong  dis- 
like of  scenes  of  all  kinds,  and  this  interview  didn't  begin  as 
l>r()misingly  as  he  had  hoped. 

Slie  remained  pale  and  silent  for  upward  of  five  very  long 
minutes  ;  only  once  her  lips  whisi>ered,  as  if  unconsciously  : 

"  The  time  has  come — the  time  has  come." 

It  was  Sir  Victor  himself  who  broke  tlie  embarrassing 
pause. 

"  Aunt  Helena,"  he  said  pettishly,  for  he  was  not  accus- 
touied  to  have  his  sovereign  will  disputed,  "  I  don't  under- 
stand this,  and  you  will  pardon  me  if  1  say  I  don't  like  it.  It 
must  have  entered  your  mind  that  sooner  or  later  I  would 
fall  in  love  and  marry  a  wife,  like  other  men.  That  time 
has  come,  as  you  say  yourself.  There  is  nothing  I  can  see 
to  be  shocked  at." 

"  But  not  so  soon,"  she  answered  brokenly.  "  O  Victor, 
not  so  soon." 

"  I  don't  consider  twenty-three  years  too  soon.  I  am  old- 
fashioned,  very  likely,  but  I  do  believe  in  the  almost  obsolete 
doctrine  of  early  marriage.  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart." 
His  kindling  eyes  and  softened  voice  l>etrayed  it.  "Thank 
Heaven  she  has  accepted  me.  Without  her  my  life  would 
not  be  wortii  the  having." 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  she  asked,  without  looking  up.  "  Lady 
Cweniloline,  of  coiu-se." 

"Lady  Gwendoline?"  He  smiled  and  lifted  his  eye- 
brows. 


210 


HOW  LADY  I/ELENA    TOOK  IT. 


"  No,  my  dear  aunt ;  a  very  different  person  from  Lady 
Gwendoline.     Miss  Darrcll." 

She  sat  erect  and  gazed  at  liiin — stunned. 

"  Miss  Darrell  !  Edith  Darrell — the  American  girl,  the 
— Victor,  if  this  is  a  jest — " 

"  Lady  Helena,  am  1  likely  to  jest  on  such  a  subject  ? 
It  is  the  truth.  This  morning  Miss  Darrell — Edith — has 
made  me  the  liai:)i)iest  man  in  England  by  promising  to  be 
my  wife.  Surely,  aunt,  you  must  have  suspected — must  have 
seen  that  I  loved  her." 

"I  have  seen  nothing,"  she  answered  blankly,  looking 
straight  before  her — "  nothing.  I  am  only  an  old  woman 
— I  am  growing  blind  and  stupid,  I  sup[)ose.  I  have  seen 
nothing." 

There  was  a  pause.  At  no  time  was  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
a  fluent  or  ready  speaker — ^just  at  i)resent,  jierhaps,  it  was 
natural  he  should  be  rather  at  a  loss  for  words.  And  her 
ladyship's  manner  was  the  reverse  of  reassuring. 

"I  have  loved  her  from  the  first,"  he  said,  breaking  once  morQ 
the  silence — "from  the  very  first  night  of  the  party,  witiiout 
knowing  it.  In  all  the  world,  she  is  tlie  only  one  I  can  ever 
marry.  With  her  my  life  will  be  supremely  happy,  superbly 
blessed ;  without  her — but  no!  1  do  not  choose  to  think 
what  my  life  would  be  like  without  her.  You,  who  have 
been  as  a  mother  to  me  all  my  life,  will  not  mar  my  perfect 
happiness  on  this  day  of  days  by  saying  you  object." 

"  But  I  do  object  ! "  Lady  Helena  exclaimed,  with  sud- 
den energy  and  anger.  "More — I  absolutely  refuse.  I  say 
again,  you  are  too  young  to  want  to  niarry  at  all.  Why,  even 
your  favorite  Shakespeare  says  :  '  A  young  man  married,  is 
a  man  that's  marred.'  When  you  are  thirty  it  will  be  quite 
time  enough  to  talk  of  this.  Go  abroad  again — see  the  world 
— go  to  the  East,  as  you  have  often  talked  of  doing — to 
Africa — anywhere  !  No  man  knows  himself  or  his  own 
heart  at  the  ridiculous  age  of  twenty-three  ! " 

Sir  Victor  Catheron  smiled,  a  very  quiet  and  terribly  ob- 
stinate smile. 

"  My  extreme  youth,  then,  is  your  only  objection  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  not — I  have  a  hundred  objections — it  is  objec- 
tionable from  every  point.  I  object  to  her  most  decidedly 
and  absolutely.    You    shall   not  marry  this  American  girl 


ffOW  LADY  IIELEA'A    TOOK  IT. 


211 


without  family  or  station,  and  of  whom  yon  know  absolutely 
nothing — with  whom  you  have  r\o\.  been  acciuainted  four 
weeks.  Ol),  it  is  al)sui(l-it  is  ridiculous — it  is  the  most 
l)rei>ostcrons  folly  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life." 

His  smile  left  his  face — a  frown  came  instead.  His  lips 
set,  he  looked  at  h  -r  with  a  face  of  invincible  determination. 

"  Is  t/iis  all  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  1  will  answer  your  ob- 
jections when  I  have  thoroughly  iieard  them.  1  am  !ny  own 
master — but — that  nnich  is  due  to  you." 

"  1  tell  you  she  is  beneath  you — beneath  you  !  "  Lady 
Helena  said  vehemently.  "The  Catlierons  have  always 
married  well — into  ducal  families.  Your  granchnolher — my 
sister — was,  as  I  am,  the  daughter  of  a  marcjuis." 

"And  7iiy  mother  was  the  daughicr  of  a  soaj)  boiler,"  he 
said  with  bitterness.     "  Don't  let  us  forget  i/iaty 

"Why  do  you  speak  to  me  of  her?  1  can't  bear  it. 
You  know  I  cannot.  You  do  well  to  taunt  me  with  the  ple- 
beian blood  in  your  veins — you,  of  all  men  alive.  Oh  !  why 
did  you  ever  see  this  designing  girl?  Why  did  slie  ever 
come  between  us  ?  " 

She  was  working  herself  iipto  a  pitch  of  jiassionate  excite- 
ment, quite  incomprehensible  to  her  nephew,  and  as  displeas- 
ing as  it  was  incomprehensible. 

"  When  you  call  her  designing,  Lady  Helena,"  he  said,  in 
slow,  angry  tones,  "you  go  a  little  too  far.  In  no  way 
has  Miss  Darrell  tried  to  win  me — 'lis  the  one  drawback  to 
my  perfect  ha|)piness  now  that  she  docs  not  love  me  as  I 
love  her.  She  has  told  me  so  frankly  and  bravely.  Dut  it 
will  come.  I  feel  that  such  love  as  mine  must  win  a  return. 
For  the  rest,  I  deny  that  she  is  beneath  me  :  in  all  things — 
beauty,  intellect,  goodness — she  is  my  sui)erior.  She  is  the 
(l.uigliter  of  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman  ;  lier  affection  would 
iionor  the  best  man  on  earth.  I  deny  that  I  am  too  young 
—  I  deny  that  she  is  my  inferior — 1  deii)  even  your  right, 
Lady  Helena,  to  speak  disparagingly  of  her.  And,  in  con- 
clusion, I  say,  that  it  is  my  unalterable  determination  to 
niarry  Ldiih  Darrell  at  the  earliest  possible  hour  that  I  can 
prevail  upon  her  to  fix  our  wedding-day." 

She  looked  at  him  ;  the  unalterable  determination  he 
spoke  of  was  printed  in  every  line  of  his  set  face. 

!'l  might  have  known  it,"  she  said,  with  suppressed  bitter- 


ax3 


HOW  LADY  HELENA    TOOK  IT. 


ness ;  "  he  is  his  father's  son.  The  same  obstinacy — the 
same  refusal  to  Hstcn  to  all  warning.  Sooner  or  later  1  knew 
it  must  come,  but  not  so  soon  as  this." 

The  tears  coursed  slowly  over  her  cheeks,  and  moved  him 
as  nothing  she  ever  could  have  said  would  have  done. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  aunt,  don't  cry,"  he  said  hurriedly. 
"  You  distress  me — you  make  me  feel  like  a  brute,  and  I — 
really  now,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  blame  me  in  this  way. 
Miss  Darrell  is  not  a  Lady  Gwendoline,  certainly — she  has 
neither  rank  nor  wealth,  but  in  my  sight  their  absence  is  no 
objection  whatever.  And  I  love  her  ;  everything  is  said  in 
that." 

'■  You  love  her,"  she  repeated  mournfully.  **  O  my 
poor  boy,  my  poor  boy  !  " 

"  I  don't  think  1  deserve  pity,"  Sir  Victor  said,  smiling 
again.  "  I  don't  feci  as  though  I  did.  And  now  tell  me  the 
real  reason  of  all  this," 

"  The  real  reason  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  you  don't  suppose  I  do  not  see  it  is  some- 
thing besides  those  you  have  given.  There  is  something 
else  under  all  this.    Now  let  us  hear  it,  and  Iiave  done  with  it." 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his  and  looked  at  her — a  reso- 
lute smile  on  his  fair  blonde  face. 

'•  Troubles  are  like  certain  wild  animals,"  he  said  ;  "  look 
them  straight  in  the  eye  and  they  turn  and  take  to  flight. 
Why  should  I  not  marry  at  twenty-three  ?  If  I  were  marry- 
ing any  one  else — Lady  Gwendoline  for  instance — would  my 
extreme  juvenility  still  be  an  obstacle  ?  " 

"  You  had  much  better  not  marry  at  all." 

"  What  !  live  a  crusty  old  bachelor  !  Now,  now,  my  good 
aunt,  this  is  a  little  too  much,  and  not  at  all  what  1  expected 
from  -^  lady  of  your  excellent  common-sense." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  make  a  jest  of,  Victor.  It  is  better 
you  should  not  marry — better  the  name  of  Catheron  should 
die  out  and  be  blotted  from  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  Lady  Helena  !  " 

"  I  know  wliat  I  am  saying,  Victor.  You  would  say  it  too, 
perhaps,  if  you  knew  all." 

"  You  will  tell  me  all.  Oh  yes,  you  will.  You  have  said 
too  much  or  too  little,  now.  1  must  hear  '  all,'  then  I  shall 
judge  for  myself.     I  may  be  in  love — still  I  am  amenable  to 


ffOI'y  LADY  I/ELENA    TOOK  IT. 


213 


reason.  If  you  can  show  nie  any  just  cause  or  impediment 
to  my  maiTia{i;i: — if  you  can  convince  mc  it  will  be  wrong  in 
tile  sijj;iu  of  IIlmvcu  or  man,  tlicn,  (Icarly  as  I  love  her,  1  will 
give  her  up.      Hut  your  proof  must  l)e  strong  indeeil." 

Slie  lookeil  at  him  doubtfully — wistfully. 

"  Would  yo'i  do  lliis,  Victor?  Would  you  have  strength 
to  give  lip  the  girl  you  love  ?  My  boy,  my  son,  I  don't  want 
to  be  haril  on  you.  1  want  to  see  you  hai)i)y,  Heaven 
knows,  and  yet — " 

"  1  will  be  happy — only  tell  me  the  truth  and  let  mc  judge 
for  myself." 

Me  was  smiling — he  was  incredulous.  Lady  Helena's 
mountain,  seen  by  his  eyes,  no  doubt,  would  turn  out  the 
veriest  molehill. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  answered,  in  agitated 
tones.  "  I  promised  her  to  tell  you  if  this  day  ever  came, 
ai.d  now  it  is  here  and  1 — oh  !  "  she  cried  out  i)assionately, 
*•  i  cant  tell  you  !  " 

He  grew  pale  himself,  with  fear  of  he  knew  not  what. 

"  You  can,  you  will — you  must  !  "  he  said  resolutely. 
"  I  am  not  a  child  to  be  frightened  of  a  bcgy.  What  terrible 
secret  is  there  hidden  behind  all  this  ?" 

"  Terrible  secret — yes,  that  is  it.  Terrible  secret — you 
have  .said  it !  " 

"  Do  you,  by  any  chance,  refer  to  my  mother's  death  ? 
Is  it  that  you  knew  all  these  years  her  nmrderer  and  have 
kept  it  secret  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  turned  away. 

"  Am  1  right  ?  "  he  persisted. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  goaded,  it  seemed,  by  his  persistent 
questioning  into  a  sort  of  frenzy. 

"Let  me  alone,  Victor  Catheron,"  she  cried.  "I  have 
kept  my  secret  for  twenty-three  years — do  you  think    you 


will  wring  it  from  me  all  in   a  moment  now? 


What  right 


have  you  to  question  me — to  say  I  shall  tell,  or  shall  not  ? 
If  you  knew  all  you  would  know  you  have  110  rights  what- 
ever— none — no  right  to  ask  any  woman  to  share  your  life — 
no  right,  if  it  comes  to  that,  even  to  the  title  you  bear!  " 

He  rose  up  too — white  to  the  lips.     Was  Lady  Helena 
going  mad  ?     Had  the  announcement  of  his  marriage  turned 


214 


'HO IV  LADY  I/ELENA    TOOK  IT. 


her  brain  ?  In  that  pause,  before  either  could  sjjcak  again, 
a  knock  that  had  been  twice  given  unheard,  was  repeated  a 
third  time.  It  brought  botli  back  instantly  from  tlie  tragic, 
to  tlie  decorum  of  cvcry-day  Hfe.  Lady  Helena  sat  down  ; 
Sir  Victor  opened  the  door.  It  was  a  servant  with  a  note 
on  a  salver. 

"  Well,  sir,"  the  baronet  demanded  abruptly.  "What  do 
you  want?" 

"  It's  her  ladyship,  Sir  Victor.  A  lady  to  see  yoi.r  lady- 
ship on  very  imiwrlant  business." 

"  I  can  see  no  one  this  morning,"  Lady  Helena  responded  ; 
"tell  her  so." 

"  My  lady,  excuse  me  ;  this  lady  said  your  ladyship  would 
be  sure  to  sec  her,  if  your  ladyship  would  look  at  this  note. 
It's  the  lady  in  mourning,  my  lady,  who  has  been  here  to  see 
your  ladysliii)  before.     Wliich  this  is  the  note,  my  lady." 

Lady  Helena's  face  lit  up  eagerly  now.  Slu  tore  open 
the  note  at  once. 

"  You  may  go,  Nixon,"  she  said.  "  Show  the  lady  up 
inunediately." 

She  ran  over  the  few  brief  lines  the  note  contained,  with 
a  look  of  unutterable  relief.  Like  the  letter,  it  was  signed 
"  Inez." 

"  Victor,"  she  said,  turning  to  her  nep'hcw  and  holding 
out  her  hand,  "  forgive  me,  if  in  my  excitement  and  haste  I 
have  said  what  I  should  not.  Give  me  a  little  time,  and 
everything  will  be  explained.  The  coming  of  In — this  lady 
— is  the  most  o[)i)ortune  thing  in  the  world.  You  shall  be 
told  all  soon." 

"  1  am  to  understand  then,"  Sir  Victor  said  coldly,  "  tliat 
this  stranger,  this  mysterious  lady,  is  in  your  confidence  ; 
that  she  is  to  be  received  into  mine — that  siie  is  to  be  con- 
sulted before  you  can  tell  me  this  secret  which  involves  the 
hai)i)iness  of  my  life  ?  " 

"  Precisely  !  You  look  angry  and  incredulous,  but  later 
you  will  understand.  Slie  is  one  of  our  family — more  at 
present  1  cannot  say.  (lo,  Victor;  tru^il  me,  believe  me, 
neither  your  honor  nor  your  love  shall  suffer  at  our  hands. 
Postpone  tlie  driving-party,  or  make  my  excuses  ;  I  shall  not 
leave  my  rooms  to-day.  To-morrow,  if  it  be  possible,  the 
truth  shall  be  yours  as  well  as  mine." 


ON  ST.    PARTRIDGE  DAY. 


215 


He  bowed  coldly — annoyed,  amazed,  and  went.  What 
did  all  this  mean  ?  U])  to  the  jM-escnt,  Jiis  life  had  flowed 
])cacefully,  almost  shujjjishly,  without  family  secrets  or  mys- 
tifications of  any  kintl.  And  now  all  at  once  here  were 
secrets  and  mysteries  cropping  np.  //■V/i?/ was  this  wonder- 
ful secret — who  was  this  mysterious  lady  ?  He'  nuist  wait 
until  to-morrow,  it  ajipeared,  for  the  answer  to  both. 

"  One  thing  is  fixed  as  fixte,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  left 
the  room,  "  I  won't  give  uj)  Edith,  for  ten  thousand  family 
secrets — for  all  the  mysterious  ladies  on  earth !  Wiiat- 
ever  others  may  have  done,  1  at  least  have  done  notliing 
to  forfeit  my  darling's  hand.  The  doctrine  that  would  make 
us  suffer  for  the  sins  of  others,  is  a  mistaken  doctrine.  I-et 
to-moirow  bring  forth  what  it  may,  I'Mith  Darrell  shall  be 
my  wife." 


CHAPTER  XH. 


ON  ST.    PARTRIDGE    DAY. 


S  he  descended  the  stairJie  encountered  Nixon  and 
a  veiled  lady  in  black  as(xuiding.  He  looked  at 
her  keenly — she  was  tall  and  slender  ;  bej'ond  that, 
through  the  heavy  crape  veil,  he  (  ould  make  out 
nothing.  "  Mysterious,  certainly  !"  he  thought.  "  I  wonder 
who  she  is  ?  "  He  bowed  as  he  passed  her  ;  she  bent  her 
head  in  return  ;  then  he  hastened  to  seek  out  Ivlith,  and  tell 
her  an  important  visitor  had  arriv-.-d  for  Lady  Helena,  and 
that  the  excursion  to  Eastlake  Abbey  would  be  ])ostj)oned. 
He  was  but  a  poor  dissembler,  and  llie  gill's  bright  brown 
eyes  were  sharp.     She  smiled  as  she  looked  and  listened 

"  Did  you  know  I  could  tell  fortunes,  Sir  Victor?  Hold 
out  your  hand  and  let  me  tell  )  ou  tlie  p.ist.  You  have  been 
upstairs  with  Lady  Helena;  you  have  told  her  that  Julith 
Darrell  has  consenteil  to  be  your  wife.  You  have  asked  her 
sanction  to  the  iiuion,  and  have  been  naturally,  indignantly, 
and  peremptorily  refused." 

He  smiled,  but  rhe  conscious  color  rose. 

"I  always  suspected  you  of  being  an  enchantress — now  I 


2l6 


ON  ST.   PARTRIDGE  DAY. 


know  it.  Can  you  tell  me  the  future  as  truthfully  as  the 
past  ?  " 

"  In  this  instance  I  think  so.  *  You  sluvU  never  marry  a 
penniless  nobody,  sir.'  (.And  il  is  exactly  Lady  Helena's 
voice  that  s[)ealc.s.)  '  Voin-  fiiiiily  is  not  to  be  disgraced  by 
a  low  marriage.  'I'his  girl,  who  is  but  a  sort  of  upper  servant, 
hired  and  paid,  in  the  family  of  these  common  rich  Americaii 
people,  is  no  mate  for  a  Calhcron  of  C'aUieron.  I  refu^e  to 
listen  to  a  word,  sir — I  insist  upon  this  preposterous  affair 
being  given  up.'  You  expostulate — in  vain.  And  as  con- 
stant dropping  wears  the  most  obstinate  stone,  so  at  last  will 
her  ladyship  conquer.  You  will  come  to  mc  one  day  and 
say  :  '  Look  here.  Miss  Darrell,  I'm  awfully  sorry,  you  know, 
but  we've  made  a  mistake — Fve  made  a  mistake.  1  return 
you  your  freedom — will  you  kindly  give  me  back  mine  ? 
And  Miss  Darrell  will  make  Sir  Victor  Catheron  her  best 
curtsey  and  retire  into  the  outer  darkness  from  whence  she 
came." 

He  laughed.  Her  imitation  of  his  own  slow,  accented 
manner  of  speaking  was  so  perfect.  Only  for  an  instant ; 
then  he  was  grave,  almost  reproachful. 

"  And  you  know  me  no  better  than  this  !  "  he  said.  "  I 
take  back  my  words;  you  are  no  seeress.  I  love  my  aunt 
very  dearly,  but  not  all  the  aunts  on  earth  could  part  mo 
from  you.  I  would  indeed  be  a  dastard  if  a  few  words  of 
objection  would  make  me  resign  the  girl  I  love." 

"I  don't  know,"  Miss  Darrell  answered  coolly  ;  "  it  might 
be  better  for  both  of  us.  Oh,  don't  get  angry,  please — you 
know  whuL  I  mean.  I  am  a  nobody,  as  your  somebodies  go 
on  this  side.  My  Grandfather  Stuart  w;:s  a  peddler  once,  I 
believe  ;  my  Grandfather  Darrell,  a  schoolmaster.  Not  a 
very  distinguished  descent.  My  fath:r  by  education  and  re- 
finement is  a  gentleman,  but  he  keeps  a  boarding-house. 
And  I  am  Miss  Stuart's  paid  companion  and  poor  relation. 
r»e  wise,  Sir  Victor,  while;  there  is  time  ;  be  warned  before  it 
is  too  late.  I  pr(Mi)ise  not  to  be  angry — to  even  admi.e 
your  common-sense.  Lady  Helena  has  been  as  a  nu)th,:r 
to  you;  it  isn't  worth  while  (jftonding  her  U',x  me— I'm  not 
worth  it.  There  are  dozens  of  girls  in  England,  high-born, 
high-bred,  and  twice  as  handsome  as  I  am,  who  will  love  you 


ON  sr.    PARTRIDGE  DAY, 


217 


and  marry  you  to-morrow.  Sir  Victor  Cathcron,  let  us 
shake  hands  and  part." 

She  held  it  out  to  him  with  a  smile,  supremely  careless 
and  nphfri'd.  He  caught  it  passionately,  his  blue  eyes  afire, 
and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

''  Not  for  ten  thousand  worlds  !  O  Editli,  how  lightly 
you  tilk  of  parting,  of  giving  me  up.  Am  1  then  so  utterly 
indifferent  to  you  ?  No  ;  I  will  never  resign  you  ;  to  call 
you  wife  is  the  one  hope  of  my  life.  My  darling,  if  you 
knew  how  I  love  you,  how  empty  and  worthless  the  whole 
world  seems  without  you  !  But  one  day  you  will,  you  must 
—  one  day  you  will  be  able  no  more  to  live  without,  me  than 
I  without  you.  Don't  talk  like  this  any  more,  Edith  ;  if  you 
knew  how  it  hurts  me  you  would  be  more  merciful,  1  am 
sure.  Life  can  hold  nothing  half  so  bitter  for  me  as  the  loss 
of  you." 

She  listened  in  a  sort  of  wonder  at  Iiis  impassioned  ear- 
nestness, looking  at  him  shyly,  wistfully. 

"You  love  me  like  this  ?"  she  said. 

"  A  hundred  times  more  than  this.  I  would  die  for  you, 
Edith.  How  empty  and  theatrical  it  sounds,  but,  Heaven 
knows,  1  would." 

She  jiassed  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  clasped  the 
other  round  it,  her  bright  smile  back. 

"  Don't  die,"  she  said,  with  that  smile,  and  her  own  rare, 
lovely  blush  ;  "  do  belter — live  for  me.  Ah,  Sir  Victor,  I  don't 
think  it  will  be  such  a  very  hard  thing  to  learn  to — like  you  !  " 

"My  darling  I  And  you  will  talk  no  more  of  jjarting — 
no  more  of  giving  me  up?  You  don't  really  wish  it,  Edith, 
do  you  ?  " 

"  iNfost  certainly  not.  ^VouId  I  have  accepted  you,  if  I 
ditl  ?  I'll  never  give  you  up  diile  you  care  for  me  like  this. 
If  we  ever  part,  the  parting  shall  be  your  doing,  not  mine." 

"  y]/l' doing — mine  l^'  he  laughed  aloud  in  his  incredulity 
and  liLippiness.  "  The  days  of  miracles  are  over,  belle  an:ie, 
but  a  sunnncr  breeze  could  more  easily  uproot  these  oaks 
than  that.  And  lest  ycu  shoukl  think  yourself  fetterless  and 
free,  I  will  bind  you  at  once."  He  ihew  from  his  pocket  a 
liny  MKjrocco  box.  "See  this  ring,  Va\\\.\\  :  it  has  been  worn 
by  women  of  our  house  for  the  past  two  centuries — the  be- 
trothal ring  of  the  Catherons.  Let  me  place  it  on  your  finger, 
10 


2l8 


ON  ST.    PARTRIDGE  DA  V. 


never  to  be  taken  off  until  I  bind  you  with  a  golden  circlet 
stronger  still." 

Her  dark  ej-es  sparkled  as  she  looked  at  it.  It  was  a 
solitaire  diamond  of  wonderful  size  and  brilliance,  like  a 
great  drop  of  limpid  water,  set  in  dull  red  gold. 

"There  is  some  queer  old  tradition  extant  about  it,"  he 
said,  "  to  the  effect  IJiat  the  bride  of  a  Catheron  who  does 
not  wear  it  will  lead  a  most  unhapj/y  life  and  die  a  most  un- 
liajipy  death.  So,  my  dearest,  you  see  how  incumbent  upon 
you  it  is  for  your  own  sake  to  wear  it  religiously." 

Me  laughed,  but  she  lifted  to  his,  two  deep,  thoughtful, 
dark  eyes. 

"  Did  your  mother  wear  it,  Sir  Victor  ?  " 

He  started,  the  smile  died  from  his  face,  his  color  faded. 

"My  mother?"  he  answered  ;  ^' f/o.  My  father  married 
her  recretly  and  hastily  after  six  weeks'  courtship,  and  of 
course  never  thought  of  the  ring.  '  Lead  an  unhappy  life, 
die  an  unhappy  death, '  "  he  said,  repeating  his  own  words  ; 
"  she  did  both,  and,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  she  never 
wore  it." 

"  An  odd  coincidence,  at  least,"  said  Edith,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  diamond  blazing  in  the  sunshine  on  her  hand. 

A  ])riceless  diamond  on  the  hand  of  Edith  Darrell,  the 
brown  hand  that  two  months  ago  IkuI  swept,  and  dusted,  and 
worked  unwillingly  in  the  shabby  old  house  at  home. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  about  my  mother,"  Sir  Victor  said  ; 
"  there  is  always  something  so  terrible  to  me  in  the  memory 
of  her  death.  Your  life  will  be  very  different  from  hers — my 
poor  mother." 

"  I  hope  so,"  was  the  grave  reply  ;  "  and  in  my  case  there 
will  be  no  jealous  rival,  will  there  ?  Sir  Victor,  do  you  know 
I  should  like  to  visit  Catheron  Royals.  If  we  have  had  love- 
making  enough  fur  one  day,  suppose  we  walk  over?" 

"  I  shall  never  have  love-making  enough,"  he  laughed. 
"I  shall  bore  you  awfully  sometimes,  I  have  no  doubt  ;  but 
when  the  heart  is  full  the  lips  must,  speak.  And  as  to  walk- 
ing— it  is  a  long  walk — do  you  think  you  can  ?" 

"As  I  am  to  become  a  naturalized  luigli>h woman,  the 
sooner  I  take  to  English  habits  the  belter.  1  shall  at  least 
make  the  attempt." 

"And  we  can  drive  back  in  lime  for  dinner.     I   shall 


ON  ST.  PARTRIDGE  DAY. 


219 


be  delighted  to  show  you  the  old  place — your  future  home, 
where  we  are  to  spend  together  so  many  happy  years." 

They  set  off.  It  was  a  delightful  walk,  that  sunny  day, 
across  fields,  down  fragrant  green  lanes,  where  the  hedges 
in  bloom  made  the  air  odorous,  and  the  birds  sang  in  the 
arching  branches  overhead.  A  long,  lovely  walk  over  that 
quiet  high-road,  where  three-and-twenty  years  ago,  another 
Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  ridden  away  forever  from  the 
wife  he  loved. 

With  the  yellow  splendor  of  the  afternoon  sunlight  gild- 
ing it,  its  tall  trees  waving,  its  gray  turrets  and  toivurs  pierc- 
ing the  amber  air,  its  ivied  walls,  and  tall  stacks  of  chim- 
neys, Catheron  Royals  came  in  view  at  last.  The  fallow 
deer  browsed  undisturbed,  gaudy  peacocks  strutted  in  the 
sun,  a  fawn  lifted  its  shy  wild  eyes  and  fled  away  at  their 
approach.     Over  p,ll,  solemn  Sabbath  stillness. 

"  Welcome  to  Catheron  Royals — welcome  as  its  mistress, 
my  bride,  my  love,"  Sir  Victor  Catheron  said. 

She  lifted  her  eyes — they  were  full  of  tears.  How  good  he 
was — how  tenderly  he  loved  her,  and  what  a  happy,  grateful 
girl  she  had  reason  to  be.  They  entered  the  house,  admit- 
ted by  a  very  old  woman,  who  bobbed  a  curtsey  and  looked 
at  them  with  curious  eyes.  Two  or  three  old  retainers 
took  care  of  the  place  and  showed  it  to  strangers. 

Leaning  on  her  lover's  arm,  Edith  Darrell  walked  through 
scores  of  stately  rooms,  immense,  chill  halls,  picture-gal- 
leries, drawing-rooms,  and  chambers.  What  a  stupendous 
place  it  was — bigger  and  more  imposing  by  far  than  Pow- 
yss  Place,  and  over  twice  as  old.  She  looked  at  the  polished 
suits  of  armor,  at  battle-axes,  antlers,  pikes,  halberds,  until 
her  eyes  ached.  She  paced  in  awe  and  wonder  down  the 
vast  portrait-gallery,  where  half  a  hundred  dead  and  gone 
Catherons  looked  at  her  sombrely  out  of  their  heavy 
frames.  And  one  day  her  picture — hers — would  hang  in 
solemn  slate  here.  The  women  who  looked  at  her  from 
these  walls  lay  stark  and  stiff  in  the  vaults  beneath  Ches- 
holm  Church,  and  sooner  or  later  they  would  lay  her  stark 
and  stiff  with  them,  and  put  up  a  marble  tablet  recording 
her  age  and  virtues.  She  shivered  a  little  and  drew  a  long 
breath  of  relief  as  they  emerged  into  the  bright  outer  day 
and  fresh  air  once  more. 


220 


ON  ST.   PARTRIDGE  DAY. 


"It's  a  wonderful  place,"  she  said;  "a  place  to  dream, 
of — a  place  such  as  I  have  only  met  before  in  EngHsh 
books.  But  there  is  one  room  among  all  these  rooms 
which  you  have  not  sliown  me,  and  whidi  I  have  a  moibid 
craving  to  see.     You  will  not  be  angry  if  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Angry  with  you  ?  "  Sir  Victor  lifted  his  eyebrows  in 
laughing  surprise.  "  Speak,  Editli,  though  it  were  half  my 
kingdom." 

"It  is — "  a  pause — "to  see  the  room  where  your  mother 
— Ah  ! "  as  he  shrank  a  little,  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
should  not  have  asked." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  should.  You  shall  visit  at  once.  I  am 
a  coward  about  some  things,  I  confess — this  among  others. 
Come." 

They  went.  He  took  from  a  huge  bunch  he  carried  the 
key  of  that  long-locked  room.  He  flung  it  wide,  and  they 
stood  toi^ether  on  the  threshold. 

It  was  all  dark,  the  blinds  closed,  the  curtams  drawn, 
dark  and  deserted,  as  it  had  been  since  that  fiital  night. 
Nothing  iiad  been  changed,  absolutely  nothing.  There 
stood  the  baby  bassinet,  there  the  little  table  on  wliich  the 
knife  had  lain,  there  beneath  the  open  window  the  chair  in 
which  Ethel,  Lady  Catheron,  had  slept  her  last  long  sleep. 
A  hush  that  seemed  like  the  hush  of  death  lay  over  all. 

Edith  stood  silent  and  grave — not  speaking.  She  mo- 
tioned him  iiastily  to  come  away.  He  obeyed.  Another 
moment,  and  they  stood  together  under  the  blue  bright  sky. 

"Oh  !"  Edith  said,  under  her  breath,  "who  did  it?  " 

"  Who  indeed  ?     And  yet  Lady  Helena  knows." 

His  face  and  tone  were  sombre.  How  dare  they  let 
her  lie  in  her  unavenged  grave  ?  A  Catheron  had  done  it 
beyond  doubt,  and  to  save  the  Catheron  name  and  honor 
the       .derer  had  been  let  go. 

"  Lady  Helena  knows  ! "  repeated  Edith  ;  "  it  ivas  that 
wicked  brother  and  sister,  then  ?     How  cruel — how  cruel !  " 

"It  was  not  the  sister — I  believe  that.  That  it  must 
have  been  the  brother  no  doubt  can  exist." 

"  Is  he  living  or  dead  ?  " 

"  Living,  I  believe.  By  Heaven  !  I  have  half  a  mind 
yet  to  hunt  him  down,  and  hand  him  over  to  the  hangman 
for  the  deed  he  has  done  !  " 


ON  ST.    PARTRIDGE  DAY. 


22  I 


"An  ancient  name  and  family  honor  are  wonderful  things 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  a  couple  of  million  dollars  on 
ours.  They  can  save  the  murderer  from  the  gallows.  We 
won't  talk  about  it,  Sir  Victor — it  makes  you  nnhapi)y  I 
see;  only  if  ever  I — if  ever  J,"  laughing  and  blushing  a  lit- 
tle, "come  to  be  mistress  of  that  big,  romantic  old  house, 
I  shall  wall  that  room  up.  It  will  always  be  a  haunted 
chauijer — a  DIuebeard  closet  for  me." 

*'  If  ever  you  are  mistress,"  he  repeated.  "  Edith,  my 
dearest,  when  will  you  Ik-  ?" 

"Who  knows?     Never,  perhaps." 

"  Edith — again  I  " 

"  VV^cll,  who  can  tell.  I  may  die — you  may  die — some- 
thing may  happen.  1  can't  realize  that  I  ever  will  be.  I 
can't  think  of  myself  as  Lady  Catheron," 

"  Edith,  I  connnand  you  !     Name  the  day." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Sir  Victor — " 

"  Dear  Victor,  without  the  i)refix  ;  let  all  formality  end 
between  us.  Why  need  we  wait  ?  You  are  your  own  mis- 
tress, 1  my  own  master  ;  I  am  desperately  in  love — I  want 
to  be  married.  I  7vill  be  married.  Tliere  is  nothing  to 
wait  for — I  icon't  wait.  Edith  shall  it  be — this  is  the  last 
of  May — shall  it  be  the  first  week  of  July  ?  " 

"No,  sir;  it  shall  not,  nor  the  fust  week  of  August.  We 
don't  do  things  in  this  desperate  sort  of  hot  haste." 

"  lUit  why  should  we  delay  ?  WHiat  is  there  to  delay  for? 
I  shall  have  a  brain-fever  if  I  am  compelled  to  wait  longer 
than  Augu-t.  Be  reasonable,  Edith;  don't  let  it  be  later 
than  August." 

"  Now,  now,  now,  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  August  is  not  to 
be  thought  of.  I  shall  not  marry  you  for  ages  to  come — • 
not  until  Lady  Helena  Powyss  gives  her  full  and  free  con- 
sent." 

"  Lady  Helena  shall  give  her  full  and  free  consent  in  a 
week  ;  she  could  not  refuse  me  anything  lonejr  if  she  tried. 
Little  tyrant !  if  you  cared  for  me  one  straw,  you  would 
not  object  like  this." 

"  Yes  I  would.  Nobody  marries  in  this  imi)etuous  fash- 
ion. 1  won't  hear  of  August.  Besides,  there  is  my  en- 
gagement  with   Mrs.    Stuart.     I    have   promised    to   talk 


222 


ffOlV  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


French  and  German  all  through  the  Continent  for  them 
this  summer." 

"  I  will  furnish  Mrs.  Stuart  a  substitute  with  every  Eu- 
ropean language  at  her  finger-ends.  Seriously,  Edith,  you 
must  consider  that  contract  at  an  end — my  promised  wife 
can  be  no  one's  paid  companion.  Pardon  me,  but  you 
must  see  this,  Edith." 

"  I  see  it,"  she  answered  gravely.  She  had  her  own 
reasons  for  not  wishing  to  accompany  the  Stuart  family 
now.  And  after  all,  why  should  she  insist  on  postponing 
the  marriage  ? 

"  You  are  relenting — I  see  it  in  your  face,"  he  exclaimed 
imploringly.  "  Edith  I  Edith  1  shall  it  be  the  first  week 
of  September?" 

She  smiled  and  looked  at  him  as  she  had  done  early 
this  eventful  morning,  when  she  had  said  "  Yes  !  " 

"As  brain-fever  threatens  if  I  refuse,  I  suppose  you 
must  have  your  way.  But  talk  of  the  wilfulness  of  women 
after  this ! " 

*'  Then  it  shall  be  the  first  of  September — St.  Partridge 
Day  ?  " 

♦•  It  shall  be  St.  Partridge  Day." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


HOW  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


EANTIME  the  long  sunny  hours,  that  passed   so 

WSVJi  ti  pleasantly  for  these  plighted  lovers,  lagged  drearily 

l^w.B  enough  for  one  young  lady  at  Powyss  Place — Miss 

Beatrix  Stuart. 

She   had   sent   for   her  mother  and   told   her  the  news. 

Placid  Aunt  Chatty  lifted  her  meek  eyebrows  and  opened 

her  dim  eyes  as  she  listened. 

"  Sir  Victor  Catheron  going  to  marry  our  Edith  !     Dear 
me  !     I  am  sure  I  thought  it  was  you,  Trixy,  all  the  time. 
And  Edith  will  be  a  great  lady  after  all.     Dear  me  ! " 
That  was  all  Mrs.  Stuart  had  to  say  about  it.     She  went 


now  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


223 


back  to  her  tatting  with  a  serene  quietude  that  exasperated 
her  only  daughter  beyond  bounds, 

"  I  wonder  if  an  eartliqiiake  would  upset  ma's  equa- 
nimity !  "  thought  Trix  savagely.  "Well,  wait  until 
Charley  conies  !     We'll  see  how  he  takes  it." 

Misery  loves  company.  If  she  wa"  to  suffer  the  pangs 
of  disappointment  herself,  it  would  be  some  comfort  to  see 
Charley  suffer  also.  And  Trix  was  not  a  bad-iicarted  girl 
either,  mind — it  was  simply  human  nature. 

Charley  and  the  captain  had  gone  off  exploring  the  won- 
ders and  antiquities  of  Chester.  Edith  and  Sir  Victor 
were  nobody  knew  where.  Lady  Helena  had  a  visitor, 
and  was  shut  up  with  her.  Trix  had  nothing  but  her  novel, 
and  what  were  ail  the  novels  in  Mudie's  library  to  her  this 
bitter  day  ? 

The  long,  red  spears  of  the  sunset  were  piercing  the  green 
de]Hhs  of  fern  and  brake,  when  the  two  young  men  rode 
home.  A  servant  waylaid  Mr.  Stuart  and  delivered  his 
sister's  message.  She  wanted  to  see  him  at  once  on  impor- 
tant business, 

"  lmi)ortant  business  !  "  murmured  Charley,  opening  his 
eyes. 

ViWi  he  went  promptly  without  waiting  to  change  his 
dress. 

"Mow  do,  Trix?"  he  said,  sauntering  in.  "  Captaiu 
Hammond's  com])liments,  and  how's  the  ankle  ?  " 

He  threw  himself — no,  Charley  never  threw  himself — he 
slowly  extended  his  five-feet-eleven  of  manhood  on  a  sofa, 
and  awaited  his  sister's  rejily. 

"  Oh,  the  ankle's  just  the  same — getting  better,  I  sup- 
pose," Trix  answered,  rather  crossly.  "  1  didn't  send  for 
you  to  talk  about  my  ankle.  Much  you,  or  Captain  Ham- 
mond, or  any  one  else  cares  whether  I  have  an  ankle  at  all 
or  not." 

"  My  dear  Trix,  a  young  lady's  ankle  is  always  a  matter 
of  profound  interest  and  aJaiiration  to  every  well-regulated 
masculine  mind." 

"  ]]ah  !     Charley,  you'll  never  guess  what  I  have  to  tell  !  " 

*'  My  child,  I  don't  intend  to  try.  I  have  been  sight-see- 
ing all  the  afternoon,  interviewing  cathedrals,  and  walls,  and 
rows,  and  places,  until  I  give  you  my  word  you  might  knock 


224 


now  CHARLEY  TOOK  TT. 


nie  down  with  a  feather.  If  you  have  anything  preying  on 
your  mind — and  I  see  you  have — out  with  it.  Suspense  is 
painfuh" 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  cahnly  awaited  the  news.  It 
came — hke  a  bolt  from  a  bow. 

"  Charley,  Sir  Victor  Catlieron  has  proposed  to  lidith, 
and  Edith  has  acce])tcd  him  ! " 

Charley  opened  his  eyes,  and  fixed  them  upon  her — not 
the  faintest  trace  of  surprise  or  any  other  earthly  emotion 
upon  his  fatigued  face. 

"Ah — and  thats  your  news!  Poor  child!  After  all 
your  efforts,  it's  rather  hard  upon  you.  I'nt  if  you  cxpL-ct 
me  to  be  surprised,  you  do  your  only  brother's  \)enetralion 
something  less  than  justice.  It  has  been  an  evident  case  of 
spoons — apparent  to  the  dullest  intellect  from  liie  first.  I 
have  long  outlived  the  tender  passion  myself,  but  in  others  I 
always  regard  it  with  a  fatherly — nay — let  me  say,  even  grand- 
fatherly  interest.  And  so  they  are  going  to  '  live  and  love 
together  through  many  changing  years,'  as  the  i)oet  says. 
Bless  you,"  said  Charley,  lifting  his  hand  over  an  imaginary 
pair  of  lovers  at  his  feet — "bless  you,  my  children,  and  be 
haj^py ! " 

And  this  was  all !  And  she  had  thought  he  was  in  love  with 
Edith  himself!  This  was  all — closing  his  eyes  again  as 
though  sinking  sweetly  to  sleep.     It  was  too  much  for  Trix. 

"  O  Charley  !  "  she  burst  forth,  "  you  are  such  a  fool !  " 

Mr.  Stuart  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Overpowered  by  the  involuntary  homage  of  this  assem- 
bly, I  rise  to — " 

"  You're  an  idiot — there  !"  went  on  Trix;  "a  In  v,  stu- 
l)id  idiot  !  You're  in  love  witii  Edith  yourself,  and  you  could 
have  had  her  if  you  wished,  for  she  likes  you  better  than  Sir 
Victor,  and  then  Sir  Victor  might  have  ijrojiosed  to  me. 
IJut  no — you  must  go  dawdling  about,  jirowling,  and  pranc- 
ing, and  let  her  slip  through  your  fingers  !" 

"  Prowling  and  prancing  !  Good  Heaven,  Trix  !  I  ask 
you  soberly,  as  man  to  man,  did  you  ever  see  me  prowl  or 
prance  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life  ?  " 

"Bah-h-h  !"  said  Trix,  with  a  perfect  shake  of  scorn  in 
the  interjection.  "  I've  no  patience  with  you  !  Get  out  of 
my  room — do  !  "  » 


^ 


IIOIV  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


225 


Mr.  Stuart,  senior,  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  take  it 
quietly.     His  bile  rose  at  once. 

"  Kdith  !  Ivlith  Darrell  !  Fred.  Darrell's  penniless 
daughter!  IVatrix  Stuart,  have  you  let  this  young  baronet 
sii|)  tluough  your  fuigiMs  in  this  ridiculous  way  after  all  ?" 

"  I  never  let  him  slip — he  never  was  in  my  lingers,"  re- 
torted Trix,  nearly  crying.  "It's  just  my  usual  hick.  I 
don't  want  him — he's  a  stupid  noodle — that's  what  he  is. 
Edith's  better-looking  than  1  am.  Any  one  can  see  that 
with  half  an  eye,  anil  when  1  was  sick  on  that  horrid  ship, 
she  had  everything  her  own  way.  I  did  my  best — yes  I  did, 
pa — and  I  think  it's  a  little  too  hard  to  be  scolded  in  this 
way,  with  my  poor  sprained  ankle  and  everything  !" 

"  Weil,  tliere,  there,  child  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Stuart,  test- 
ily, for  he  was  fond  of  Trix  ;  "  don't  cry.  There's  as  good  lish 
in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught.  As  to  being  better-looking 
than  you,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  1  never  liked  your 
dark  complected  women  myself.  You're  the  biggest  and 
the  best-looking  young  woman  of  the  two,  by  CJeorge  ! " 
(iVfr.  Stuart's  grammar  was  hardly  up  to  the  standard.) 
"  There's  this  young  fellow,  Hammond — his  father's  a  lord 
— rich,  too,  if  his  grandfather  did  make  it  cotton-spinning. 
Now,  why  can't  you  set  your  cap  iox  Jiimi  When  the  old 
rooster  dies,  this  young  chaj)  will  be  a  lord  himself,  and  a 
lord's  better  than  a  baronet,  by  Oeorge  !  Come  downstairs, 
Trixy,  and  put  on  your  stunningest  gown,  and  see  if  you 
can't  hook  the  uiilitary  swell." 

Following  these  pious  parental  counsels.  Miss  Trix  did 
assume  her  "stunningest"  gown,  and  with  the  aid  of  her 
brother  and  a  crutch,  managed  to  reach  the  dining-room. 
There  Lady  Helena,  pale  and  ])reoccupied,  joined  them. 
No  allusion  was  made  at  dinner  to  the  to[)ic — a  visible  re- 
straint was  upon  all. 

"  Old  lady  don't  half  like  it,"  chuckled  Stuart  pere. 
"  And  no  wonder,  by  George  !  If  it  was  Charley  I  shouldn't 
like  it  myself.  I  must  speak  to  Charley  after  dinner — 
there's  this  Lady  Gwendoline.  He's  got  to  marry  the 
upper-crust  too.  Lady  Gwendoline  Stuart  wouldn't  sound 
bad,  by  George !  I'm  glad  there's  to  be  a  baronet  in  the 
family,  even  if  it  isn't  Trixy.  A  cousin's  daughter's  better 
than  nothing." 
10* 


226 


HOW  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


So  in  the  first  opportunity  after  dinner  Mr.  Stuart  pre- 
sented his  congratulations  as  blandly  as  possible  to  the  fu- 
ture Lady  Catheroi\.  In  the  next  opportunity  he  attacked 
his  son  on  the  subject  of  Lady  Gwendoline. 

"Take  example  by  your  Cousin  Edith,  my  boy,"  said  Mr. 
Stuart  in  a  large  voice,  standing  with  his  hands  under  his 
coat-tails.  "  That  girl's  a  credit  to  her  father  and  family, 
by  (Jeorge  !  Look  at  the  match  shf^s  making  without  a  raj) 
to  bless  herself  with.  Now  you've  a  fortune  in  prospective, 
young  man,  that  would  buy  and  sell  half  a  dozen  of  these 
beggarly  lordlings.  You've  youth  and  good  looks,  and  good 
manners,  or  if  you  haven't  you  ought  to  have,  and  I  say  you 
shall  marry  a  title,  by  George !  There's  this  Lady  Gwendo- 
line— she  ain't  rich,  but  she's  an  earl's  daughter.  Now 
what's  to  hinder  your  going  for  her  i  " 

Charley  looked  up  meekly  from  the  depths  of  his  chair. 

"As  you  like  it,  governor.  In  all  matters  matrimonial  I 
simply  consider  myself  as  non-existent.  Only  this,  I  will 
premise — I  am  ready  to  marry  her,  but  not  to  court  her. 
As  you  truthfully  observe,  I  have  youth,  good  looks,  and 
good  manners,  but  in  all  things  api)c'rtaining  to  love  and 
courtship,  I'm  as  ignorant  as  the  child  unborn.  Matrimony 
is  an  ill  no  man  can  liope  to  escape — love-making  is..  As  a 
prince  in  my  own  right,  I  claim  that  the  wooing  shall  be 
done  by  deputy.  There  is  her  most  gracious  majesty,  she 
popped  the  question  to  the  late  lamentt-il  Prince  Consort. 
Could  Lady  Gwendoline  have  any  more  illustrious  example 
to  follow  ?  You  settle  the  preliminaries.  Let  Lady  Gwen- 
doline do  the  proi)osing,  and  you  may  lead  me  any-day  you 
please  as  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter." 

With  this  reply,  Mr.  Stuart,  senior,  was  forced  for  the 
present  to  be  content  and  go  on  his  way.  Trix,  overhear- 
ing, looked  up  with  interest  : 

"  Would  you  marry  her,  Charley  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Beatrix  ;  haven't  I  said  so  ?  If  a  man  must 
marry,  as  well  a  Lady  Gwendoline  as  any  one  else.  As 
Dundreary  says,  '  One  woman  is  as  good  as  another,  and  a 
good  deal  better.' " 

"But  you've  never  seen  her." 

"  What  difference  does  that  make  ?  I  suppose  the  Prince 
of  Wales  never  saw  Alexnnd.M.  until  the  matter  was  cut  and 


now  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


227 


dry.  You  see  I  love  to  quote  lofty  examples.  Hammond 
has  described  her,  ami  I  should  say  from  his  description  she 
is  wiuU  Darry  Cornwall  would  call  'a  golden  girl'  in  every- 
thipf;  except  fortune.  Hammond  speaks  of  her  as  though 
si  e  u'cie  made  of  precious  metals  and  gems.  She  has 
^olden  hair,  alabaster  brow,  sapphire  eyes,  pearly  teeth,  and 
ruby  nose.  Or,  stay — perhaps  it  was  ruby  lips  and  chiselled 
nose.  Chiselled,  sounds  as  though  her  olfactory  organ  was 
of  marble  or  granite,  doesn't  it?  And  she's  thrce-and- 
thirty  years  of  age.  I  found  that  out  for  myself  from  the 
Peerage.  It's  rather  an  advantage,  however,  than  other- 
wise, for  a  man's  wife  to  be  ten  or  twelve  years  the  elder. 
You  see  she  combines  all  the  qualities  of  wife  and  mother 
in  one." 

And  then  Charley  sauntered  away  to  the  whist-table  to 
join  his  father  and  mother  and  Lady  Helena.  He  had  as 
yet  found  no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Edith,  and  at  dinner 
she  had  studiously  avoided  meeting  his  eye.  Captain  Ham- 
mond took  his  post  beside  Miss  Stuart's  invalid  couch,  and 
made  himself  agreeable  and  entertaining  to  that  young  lady. 

Trixy's  eyes  gradually  brightened,  and  her  color  came 
back  ;  she  held  him  a  willing  cai)tive  by  her  side  all  the 
evening  through.  Papa  Stuart  from  his  place  at  the  whist 
table  beamed  paternal  approval  down  the  long  room. 

A  silken-hung  arch  separated  this  drawing-room  from 
another  smaller,  where  the  i)iano  stood.  Except  for  two 
waxlights  on  the  piano,  this  second  drawing-room  was  in 
twilight.  Edith  sat  at  the  piano.  Sir  Victor  stood  beside 
her.  Her  hands  wandered  over  the  keys  in  soft,  dreamy 
melodies  ;  they  talked  in  whispers  when  they  talked  at  all. 
The  sj^ell  of  a  silence,  more  delicious  than  words,  held  the 
young  baronet ;  he  was  nearing  the  speechless  phase  of  the 
grandc  passion.  That  there  is  a  speechless  phase,  I  have 
been  credibly  assured  again  and  again,  by  parties  who 
have  had  experience  in  the  matter,  and  certainly  ought  to 
know. 

At  half-past  ten  Eady  Helena,  pleading  headache,  rose 
from  the  whist-table,  said  good-night,  and  went  away  to  her 
room.  She  looked  ill  and  worn,  and  strangely  anxious. 
Her  nephew,  awaking  from  his  trance  of  bliss,  and  seeing 
her  pale  face,  gave  her  his  arm  and  assisted  lier  up  the  long 


228 


HOW  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


staiiway  to  her  room.  Mrs.  Stuart,  yawning  very  much, 
followed  her  example.  Mr.  Stuart  went  out  tluougli  the 
open  French  window  to  smoke  a  last  cigar.  Captain  Ham- 
mond and  Trix  were  fathoms  deep  in  their  conversation. 
Miss  Darrell,  in  the  inner  room,  stood  alone,  her  elbow  rest- 
ing on  the  low  marble  mantel,  her  eyes  fixed  thouniitfiilly  on 
the  wall  before  her.  The  twinkle  of  liie  tai)ers  lighted  up 
the  diamond  on  her  hand,  glowing  like  a  miniature  sun. 

"You  have  been  so  completely  monopolized  all  evening, 
Dithy,"  said  a  familiar  voice  beside  her,  "  that  there  has 
been  no  such  thing  as  sjieaking  a  word  to  you.  Belter  late 
than  never,  though,  I  hope." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  Charley's  face,  Charley  looking  as 
he  ever  looked  to  her,  "  a  man  of  men,"  handsome  and  gal- 
lant, as  though  he  were  indeed  the  prince  they  called  him. 
He  took  in  his,  the  hand  hanging  so  loosely  by  her  side,  the 
hand  that  wore  the  ring. 

"  What  a  pretty  hand  you  have,  Edic,  and  how  well  dia- 
monds become  it.  I  think  you  were  born  to  wear  diamonds, 
my  handsome  cousin,  and  walk  in  silk  attire.  A  magnifi- 
cent ring,  truly — an  heirloom,  no  doubt,  in  the  Catiieron 
family.  My  dear  cousin,  Trix  has  been  telling  me  the  news. 
Is  it  necessary  to  say  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my 
heart  ?  " 

His  face,  his  voice,  his  pleasant  smile  held  no  emotion 
whatever,  save  that  of  kindly,  cousinly  regard.  His  bright 
gray  eyes  looked  at  her  with  brotherly  frankness,  nothing 
more. 

The  color  that  came  so  seldom,  and  made  her  so  lovolv, 
rose  deej:)  to  Edith's  cheeks— this  lime  the  llush  of  anger. 
Her  dark  eyes  gleamed  scornfully  ;  she  drew  her  hand  sud- 
denly and  contemptuously  away. 

"It  is  not  necessary  at  all,  Cousin  Charley.  Pray  don't 
trouble  yourself — I  know  how  you  hate  trouble — to  turn 
fine  phrases.  I  doa't  want  congratulations  ;  I  arn  too  liap[)y 
to  need  them." 

"Yet  being  the  correct  thing  to  do,  and  knowing  what  a 
stickler  you  arc  for  Ics  convc'iia/wrs,  Edith,  yon  will  still  per- 
mit me  humbly  to  oft'er  them.  It  is  a  most  suitable  m  ilch  ; 
I  congratulate  Sir  Victor  on  his  excellent  taste  and  judg« 
ment.     He  is  the  best  fellow  alive,  and  you — I  will  say  it, 


HO  IV  CHARLEY  TOOK  IT. 


229 


though  you  are  my  cousin— will  be  a  bride  even  a  baronet 
may  be  proud  of.  I  wish  you  both,  all  the  happiness  so 
suitable  a  nurtch  deserves." 

Was  this  sarcasm — was  it  real  ?  She  could  not  tell,  well 
as  she  understood  him.  Mis  placid  face,  his  serene  eyes 
were  as  cloudless  as  a  summer  sky.  Yes,  he  meant  it,  and 
only  the  other  day  he  had  told  her  he  loved  her.  She  could 
have  laughed  aloud — Charley  Stuart's  love  ! 

On  the  instant  Sir  Victor  returned.  In  his  secret  heart 
the  baronet  was  mortally  jealous  of  Charley.  The  love  that 
Ivdith  could  not  give  him,  he  felt  instinctively,  had  long  ago 
been  given  to  her  handsome  cousin.  There  was  latent  jeal- 
ousy in  his  face  now,  as  he  drew  near. 

"Am  I  ])remature,  Sir  Victor,  in  offering  my  congratula- 
tions?" Charley  said,  with  pleasant  cordiality;  "if  so,  the 
fact  of  Edith's  being  my  cousin,  almost  my  sister,  nuist  ex- 
cuse it.  You-  are  a  fortunate  man,  baronet.  It  would  be 
superfluous  to  wish  you  joy — you  have  an  overplus  of  that 
article  already." 

Sir  Victor's  brow  cleared.  Charley's  frankness,  Charley's 
perfect  good-humor  staggered  him.  1  hul  he  then  l)een  mis- 
taken after  all?  He  stretched  forth  his  hand  and  grasped 
that  of  Edith's  cousin. 

She  turned  sutldenly  and  walked  away,  a  passion  of  anger 
within  her,  flashing  as  she  went  a  look  of  hatied — yes,  ab- 
solute hatred — upon  Charley.  She  had  brought  it  ui)on 
herself,  she  had  deserved  it  all,  but  how  dared  he  mock  her 
with  his  smiles,  his  good  wishes,  when  he  knew,  he  knew 
that  her  wiiole  heart  was  in  his  keeping  ? 

"  It  shall  not  be  in  his  keeping  long,"  she  said  savagely, 
between  her  set  teeth.  "  Ingrate  !  More  unstable  than  wa- 
ter !  And  I  was  fool  enough  to  cry  for  him  and  myself  that 
night  at  Killavney." 

It  was  half-past  eleven  when  she  went  up  to  her  room. 
She  had  studiously  avoided  Charley  all  the  remainder  of  the 
eviMiiug.  She  had  demeaned  herself  to  her  alhanrcd  wilh 
a  smiling  devotion  that  had  nearly  turned  his  brain.  Hut 
the  smiles  and  the  brightness  all  faded  away  as  slie  said  good- 
night. She  toiled  wearily  up  the  stairs,  pate,  tiieii,  spirit- 
less, half  her  youth  and  beauty  gone.     Earther  down  the 


I 


230 


HOW  CHARLEY  TOOK'  IT. 


passage   she   could  hear  Charley's  mellow  voice    trolling 

carelessly  a  song  : 

'*  Did  yon  ever  have  a  cousin,  Tom  ? 
And  could  that  coiuin  sing ? 
Sisters  we  have  by  the  dozen,  Tom, 
But  a  cousin's  a  different  thing." 

Every  one  went  to  bed,  and  to  sleep  pcrhai)s,  but  Sir 
Victor  Catheron.  He  was  too  hajipy  to  sleep.  He  lit  a 
cigar  and  paced  to  and  fro  in  the  soft  darkness,  thinking  of 
the  groat  bliss  this  day  had  brought  him,  thinking  over  her 
every  word  and  smile,  thinking  that  the  fust  of  Sejjtembcr 
would  give  him  his  darling  forever.  He  walked  beneath  her 
window  of  course.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  him,  and  with 
intolerant  impatience  extinguished  her  lights  and  shrouded 
herself  and  her  wicked  rebellion  in  darkness.  His  eyes 
strayed  from  hers  to  his  aunt's,  farther  along  the  same  side. 
Yes,  in  her  room  lights  still  burned.  Lady  Helena  usually 
kept  early  hours,  as  befitted  her  years  and  infirmities.  What 
did  she  mean  by  "burning  the  midnight  oil "  to-night.  Was 
that  black  lady  from  London  with  her  still  ?  and  in  wiiat  way 
was  she  ini.xed  up  with  his  aunt  ?  Wliat  would  they  tell  him 
to-morrow?  What  secret  did  his  aunt  hold?  They  could 
tell  him  nothing  that  could  in  the  slightest  influence  his  mar- 
riage with  Edith,  that  be  knew  ,  but  still  he  wondered  a  little 
what  it  all  could  be.  At  one  the  lights  were  still  burning. 
He  was  surprised,  but  he  would  wait  no  longer.  He  waved 
his  hand  towards  Miss  Darrell's  room,  this  very  far-gone 
young  man.  "  Good-night,  my  love,  my  own,"  he  nnir- 
nnired  Byronically,  and  went  to  bed  to  sleep  and  dream  of 
her.  And  no  warning  voice  came  in  those  dreams  to  tell 
Sir  Victor  Catheron  it  was  the  last  perfectly  happy  night  he 
would  ever  know. 


TO-MORROW. 


^i 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


TO-MORROW. 


^^^0-MORROW  came,  gray  and  overcast. 
'v^^F^    weather  which  had  lasted  ahnost  since  th 


The  fine 
their  leaving 
New  York  showed  signs  of  breaking  up.  Miss 
Stuart's  ankle  was  so  much  better  that  she  was  able 
to  limp  downstairs  at  eleven,  A,  M.,  to  breakfast,  and  re- 
sume her  flirtation  with  Captain  Hammond  where  it  had 
broken  off  last  night.  MissDarrell  had  a  headache  and  did 
not  ajjpear.  And,  in  the  absence  of  his  idol  and  day  star, 
Sir  Victor  collapsed  and  ate  his  morning  inc  ;  in  sileiice 
and  sadness. 

Break  fist  over,  lie  walked  to  one  of  the  windows,  looking 
out  at  tin;  rain,  which  was  beginning  to  drift  against  the  glass, 
and  wondering,  dieaiily,  iunv  he  was  to  drag  through  the 
long  hours  widiout  Kdiili.  He  might  go  and  play  billiards 
with  the  other  fellows  ;  but  no,  lie  was  too  restless  even  for 
that.  VV!;at  was  he  to  do  to  kill  lime?  It  was  a  relief  when 
a  servirt  came  with  a  message  from  his  aunt. 

"  .i>  \'.dy's  compliments.  Sir  Victor,  and  will  you  please 
stci    ■"     '...iirs  at  once." 

'  ■  ■'•■  fc  the  grand  secret,"  lieMiought ;  *'  the  skeleton  in 
the  tan  ''v  .loset — the  discovery  of  the  mysterious  woman  in 
black." 

Tiie  woman  in  black  was  nowhere  visible  when  he  entered 
his  aunt's  apartments.  Lady  Helena  sat  alone,  her  face 
pale,  her  eyes  h'  'vy  and  red  as  thoug!)  with  weeping,  but  all 
the  anger,  all  the  excitement  of  yesterday  gone. 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  the  you.ng  man  said,  really  concerned, 
"I  am  sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  ill.  And — surely  you 
have  not  been  crying  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,"  his  aimt  replied.  "Yes,  I  have  been  crying. 
I  ii^ive  had  good  reason  to  cry  for  many  years  ])ast.  1  have 
;";i  'or  vou,  Victor,  to  tell  you  all — at  least  all  it  is  advisa- 
ble to  tell  you  at  present.  And,  before  I  begin,  let  me  apol- 
ogize if  anything  I  may  have  said  yesterday  on  the  subject 
of  your  engagement  has  wounded  you." 

"  Dear  Lady  Helena,  between  you  and  me  there  can  be 


232 


TO-MORROW. 


no  talk  of  pardon.  It  was  your  right  to  object  if  you  saw 
cause,  and  no  doubt  it  is  natural  that  Edith's  want  of  birtli 
and  fortune woulJ  wcigli  with  you.  JUit  they  do  not  vveigii 
with  nie,  and  I  k  >'  ;'' '  happiness  of  my  hfe  to  be  vtry 
near  your  heart.     J  only  to  say  again  that  that  happi- 

ness lies  entirely  with  — that  without  her  1  i;hould  be  the 
most  miserable  fellow  alive — to  hear  you  withdraw  every  ob- 
jection and  take  my  darling  to  your  arms  as  your  daughter." 

She  sighed  heavily  as  she  listened. 

"  A  wilful  man  must  have  his  way.  You  are,  as  you  told 
me  yesterday,  your  own  master,  free  to  do  as  you  jjlease.  To 
Miss  Darrell  personally  I  have  no  objection  ;  she  is  beautiful, 
well-bred,  and,  I  believe,  a  noble  girl.  Her  poverty  and  ob- 
scure birth  are  drawbacks  in  my  eyes,  but,  since  they  are  not 
so  in  yours,  I  will  allude  to  them  no  more.  The  objections  I 
made  yesterday  to  your  marriage  I  would  have  made  had 
your  bride  been  a  duke's  daughter.  I  had  ho|)ed — it  was  an 
absurd  hope — that  you  would  not  think  of  marriage  for  many 
years  to  come,  perhaps  not  at  all." 

"  But,  Aunt  Helena—" 

"  Do  I  not  say  it  was  an  absurd  hope?  The  fact  is,  Vic- 
tor, I  have  been  a  coward  —a  nervous,  wretched  coward  from 
first  to  last.  I  shut  my  eyes  to  tiie  truth.  I  feared  you 
might  fall  in  love  with  this  girl,  but  1  put  the  fear  away  from 
me.  The  time  has  come  when  the  truth  must  be  spoken, 
when  my  love  for  you  can  shield  you  no  longer.  Before  you 
marry  you  must  know  all.  Do  you  reniember,  in  the  heat  of 
my  excitement  yesterday,  telling  you  you  had  no  right  to 
the  title  you  bear?  In  one  sense  I  si)oke  the  truth.  Your 
father — "  she  gas)ied  and  paused. 

"My  father?"  he  breathlessly  repeated. 

"  Your  father  is  alive." 

He  sat  and  looked  at  her — stunned.  AVhat  was  she  say- 
ing ?  His  fiither  alive,  after  all  those  years  !  and  he  not  Sir 
Victor  Catheron  !      He  half  rose — ashen  [lale. 

"  Lady  Helena,  what  is  this  ?  My  father  alive — my  fa- 
ther, whom  for  twenty  years — since  1  could  think  at  all — I 
have  thought  dead  !     What  vile  deception  is  here?  " 

"Sit down,  Victor  ;  you  shall  hear  all.  There  is  no  vile 
deception — the  deception,  such  as  it  is,  has  been  by  his  own 
desire.     Your  father  lives,  but  he  is  hopelessly  insane." 


TO-MORROW. 


233 


He  sat  looking  at  her,  pale,  stern,  almost  confounclecl. 
"  He — he  never  recovered  fioin  the  shock  of  his  wife's 
dreadful  death,"  went  on  her  ladyship,  her  voice  trembling. 
"  Heahh  returned  after  that  terrible  brain  fever,  but  not  rea- 
son. We  took  him  away — the  best  medical  aid  everywhere 
was  tried — all  in  vain.  For  years  he  was  hopelessly,  ntterly 
insane,  never  violent,  but  mind  and  memory  a  total  blank. 
He  was  incurable — he  would  never  reclaim  his  title,  but  his 
bodily  health  was  good,  and  he  might  live  for  many  years. 
Why  then  deprive  you  of  your  rights,  since  in  noway  you  de- 
frauded him?  The  world  was  given  to  iniderstand  he  was 
dead,  and  you,  as  you  grew  up,  took  his  place  as  though  the 
grave  had  indeed  closed  over  him.  But  legally,  as  you  see 
for  yourself,  you  liave  no  claim  to  it." 

Still  he  sat  gazing  at  her — still  he  sat  silent,  his  lips  com- 
pressed, waiting  for  the  end. 

"  Of  late  years,  gleams  of  reason  have  returned,  fitfully  and 
at  imcertain  times.  On  these  rare  occasions  he  has  spoken 
of  you,  has  expressed  the  desire  that  you  should  still  be  kept 
in  ignorance,  that  he  shall  ever  be  to  the  world  dead.  You 
perceive,  therefore,  though  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  this,  it 
need  in  no  way  alarm  5'ou,  as  he  will  nev>  r  interfere  with 
your  claims." 

Still  he  sat  silent — a  strange,  intent  listening  expression  on 
his  face. 

"  Vou  recollect  the  lady  who  came  here  yesterday,"  she 
continued.  "  Victor,  looking  fixr  back  into  the  j^ast,  have 
you  no  recollection  of  some  one,  fair  and  young,  who  used 
to  bend  over  you  at  night,  hear  you  say  your  baby  prayers, 
and  sing  you  to  sleep  ?     Try  and  think," 

He  bent  his  head  in  assent, 

"  1  remember,"  he  answered. 

"  Do  >'ou  recall  how  she  looked — has  h'er  face  remained  in 
your  memory?" 

"  She  had  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  was  handsome.  I  re- 
member no  more." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

"  Victor,  have  you  no  idea  who  that  woman  was — none?" 

"None,''  he  rejjlied  coldly.  "  How  could  I,  since  she  was 
not  mv  jiiother.     1  never  heard  her  name.     Who  was  she  ?  " 


234 


TO-MORROW. 


"She  was  the  lady  yon  saw  yesterday." 

"Who  was  the  lady  I  saw  yesterday  ?  " 

She  paused  a  moment,  then  replied,  still  with  that  wistful 
glance  on  his  face  : 

"Inez  Calheron." 

"What?"  Again  he  half-started  to  his  feet.  "The 
woman  who  was  my  mother's  rival  and  enemy,  who  made  her 
life  wretched,  who  was  concerned  in  her  murder  !  Whom 
you  aided  to  escajje  from  Chesholm  jail !  The  woman  who, 
directly  or  indirectly,  is  guilty  of  her  death  !  " 

"  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  how  dare  you  ! "  Lady  Helena  also 
started  to  her  feet,  her  face  Hushing  with  haughty  anger.  "  I 
tell  you  Inez  Catheron  has  been  a  martyr — not  a  murderess. 
She  was  your  mother's  rival,  as  she  had  a  right  to  be — was 
she  not  your  father's  plighted  wife,  long  before  he  ever  saw 
Ethel  Dobb?  Slie  was  your  mother's  rival.  It  was  her 
only  fxult,  and  her  whole  life  has  been  spent  in  expiating  it. 
Was  it  not  atonement  s-fBcient,  that  for  the  crime  of  another, 
she  should  be  branded  with  life-long  infamy,  and  banished 
forever  from  home  and  friends  ?  " 

"If  the  guilt  was  not  hers  it  was  her  brother's,  and 
she  was  privy  to  it,"  the  young  man  retorted,  with  sullen 
coldness. 

"  Who  are  you,  that  you  should  say  whether  it  was  or 
not  ?  The  assassin  is  known  to  Heaven,  and  Heaven  has 
dealt  with  him.  Accuse  no  one — neither  Juan  Catheron 
nor  his  sister — all  human  judgment  is  liable  to  err.  Of  your 
mother's  death  Inez  Catheron  is  innocent — by  if  her  whole 
life  has  been  blighted.  To  your  father,  that  lifj  has  been 
consecrated.  She  has  been  his  nurse,  his  companion, 
his  more  than  sister  or  mother  all  those  years.  /  loved 
him,  and  I  could  not  have  done  what  she  has  done. 
He  used  her  brutally — brutally  I  say — and  her  revenge  has 
h^nn  life -long  devotion  and  sacrifice.  All  those  years  she 
has  never  left  him.     She  will  never  leave  him  until  he  dies." 

She  sank  back  in  her  seat,  trembling,  exhausted.  He 
listened  in  growing  wonder. 

"You  believe  me?  "  she  demanded  imperiously. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  replied  sadly.  "  My  dear  aunt,  for- 
give me.  I  believe  all  you  have  said.  Can  I  not  see  her 
and  thank  her  too  ?  " 


TO-MORROW. 


235 


"  You  shall  see  her.  It  is  for  that  she  has  remained. 
Stay  here  ;  I  will  send  her  to  you.  She  deserves  your 
thanks,  though  all  thanks  are  but  empty  and  vain  for  such  a 
life-long  martyrdom  as  hers." 

She  left  him  hastily.  Profound  silence  fell.  He  turned 
and  looked  out  at  the  fast-falling  rain,  at  the  trees  swaying 
in  the  fitful  wind,  at  the  dull,  leaden  sky.  Was  he  asleep 
and  dreaming?  His  father  alive!  He  sat  half  dazed, 
unable  to  realize  it. 

"  Victor  ! " 

He  had  not  heard  the  door  open,  he  had  not  heard  her 
approach,  but  she  stood  beside  hiin.  All  in  black,  soft, 
noiseless  black,  a  face  devoid  of  all  color ;  large,  sad,  soft 
eyes,  and  hair  white  as  winter  snow — that  was  the  wonian 
Sir  Victor  Catheron  saw  as  he  turned  round.  The  face, 
with  all  its  settled  sadness  and  pallor,  was  still  the  face  of  a 
beautiful  woman,  and  in  weird  contradiction  to  its  youth 
and  beauty,  were  the  smooth  bands  of  abundant  hair — 
white  as  the  hair  of  eighty.  The  deep,  dusk  eyes,  once  so 
full  of  pride  and  fire,  looked  at  him  with  the  tender, 
saddened  light,  long,  patient  suffering  had  wrought  ;  the 
lips,  once  curved  in  haughtiest  disdain,  had  taken  the 
sweetness  of  years  of  hopeless  pain.  And  so,  after  ihree- 
and-twenty  years,  Victor  Catheron  saw  the  woman,  whose 
life  his  father's  falsity  and  fickleness  had  wrecked. 

"  Victor ! " 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  shyly,  wistfully.  Tiio  ban 
of  murder  had  been  upon  her  all  these  years.  Who  was  to 
tell  that  in  his  inmost  heart  he  too  might  not  brand  her  as 
a  murderess  ?  But  she  need  not  have  doubted.  If  any 
suspicion  yet  lingered  in  his  mind,  it  vanished  as  he  looked 
at  her. 

"  Miss  Catheron  !"  He  grasped  her  hand,  and  held  it 
between  both  his  own.  "  I  have  but  just  heard  all,  for  the 
first  time,  as  you  know.  That  my  father  lives — that  to  him 
you  have  nobly  consecrated  your  life.  He  has  not  deserved 
it  at  your  hands  ;  let  my  father's  son  thank  you  with  all  his 
soul ! " 

"  Ah,  hush,"  she  said  softly.  "  I  want  no  thanks. 
Your  poor  father  I    Aunt  Helena  has  told  you  how  inisera- 


236 


TO-MORROW. 


bly  all  his   life  has  been  wrecked — a  life  once  so  full  of 
promise." 

"  She  has  told  me  all,  Miss  Catheron." 

*'  Not  Miss  Catheron,"  she  interposed,  with  a  smile  that 
lit  her  worn  face  into  youth  and  beauty;  "not  Miss 
Catheron,  surely — Inez,  Cousin  Inez,  if  you  will.  It  is 
twenty-three  years — do  you  know  it  ? — since  any  one  has 
called  me  Miss  Catheron  before.  You  can't  fancy  how 
oddly  it  sounds." 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  You  do  not  bear  your  own  name  ?  And  yet  I  miglit 
have  known  it,  lying  as  you  still  do — " 

"  Under  the  ban  of  murder."  She  shuddered  sli.:;htly  as 
she  said  it.  "  Yes,  when  I  fled  that  dreadful  night  from 
Chesholm  prison,  and  made  my  way  to  London,  I  left  my 
name  behind  me.  I  took  at  fust  the  name  of  Miss  JSlack. 
I  lived  in  dingy  lodgings  in  that  crowded  part  of  London, 
Ivambeth  ;  and  for  tlie  look  of  the  thing,  took  in  sewing. 
It  was  of  all  those  years  the  most  dreary,  the  most  miserable 
and  lonely  time  of  my  probation.  I  lived  there  four 
months ;  then  came  the  time  of  your  father's  complete 
restoration  to  bodily  health,  and  confirmation  of  the  fear 
that  his  mind  was  entirely  gone.  What  was  to  be  done  with 
him  ?  Lady  Helena  was  at  a  loss  to  know.  There  were 
private  asylums,  but  she  disliked  the  idea  of  shutting  him 
up  in  one.  He  was  perfectly  gentle,  perfectly  harmless, 
perfectly  insane.  Lady  Helena  came  to  see  me,  and  I, 
Joining  for  the  sight  of  a  familiar  face,  sick  and  weary  to 
death  of  the  wretched  neighborhood  in  which  I  lived,  pro- 
jiosed  the  i)lan  that  has  ever  since  been  the  plan  of  my  life. 
Let  Lady  Helena  take  a  house,  retired  enough  to  be  safe, 
sufficiently  suburban  to  be  healthy ;  let  her  place  Victor 
there  with  me ;  let  Mrs.  Marsh,  my  old  friend  and  house- 
keeper at  Catheron  Royals,  become  my  housekeeper  once 
more  ;  let  Hooper  the  butler  take  charge  of  us,  and  let  us 
all  live  together.  I  thought  then,  and  I  think  still,  it  was 
the  best  thing  for  him  and  for  me  that  could  have  been  sug- 
gested. Aunt  Helena  acted  upon  it  at  once  ;  she  found  a 
house,  on  the  outskirts  of  St.  John's  Wood — a  large  house, 
set  in  spacious  grounds,  and  inclosed  by  a  high  wall, 
called  '  Poplar  Lodge.'     It  suited  us  in  every  way  ;  it  com- 


TO-MORROW. 


237 


bined  all  the  advantages  of  town  and  country.  She  leased 
it  from  the  agent  for  a  long  term   of  years,  for  a  '  Mr. 

and  Mrs.  Victor,'  Mr.  Victor  being  in  very  poor  health. 
Secretly  and  by  night  we  removed  your  father  there,  and 
since  the  night  of  his  entrance  he  has  never  passed  the 
gates.  From  the  fust — in  the  days  of  my  youtii  and  my 
happiness — my  life  belonged  to  him  ;  it  will  belong  to  him 
to  the  end.  Hooper  and  Marsh  are  with  me  still,  old 
and  feeble  now ;  and  of  late  years  1  don't  think  I  have  been 
unhappy." 

She  sighed  and  looked  out  at  the  dull,  rain-beaten  day. 
The  young  man  listened  in  profound  pity  and  admiration. 
Not  unhappy  !  Branded  with  the  deadliest  crime  man  can 
■commit  or  the  law  punish — an  exile,  a  recluse,  the  life-long 
companion  of  an  insane  man  and  two  old  servants  !  No 
wonder  that  at  forty  her  hair  was  gray — no  wonder  all  life 
and  color  had  died  out  of  that  hopeless  fa(  e  years  ago. 
Perhajjs  his  eyes  told  her  what  was  passing  in  his  mind  ;  she 
smiled  and  answered  that  look. 

"I  have  not  been  unhappy,  Victor  ;  I  want  you  to  believe 
it.  Your  father  was  always  more  to  me  than  all  the  world 
beside — he  is  so  still.  He  is  but  the  wreck  of  the  Victor  I 
loved,  and  yet  I  would  rather  spend  my  life  by  his  side 
than  elsewhere  on  earth.  And  1  was  not  quite  forsaken. 
Aunt  Helena  often  came  and  brought  you.  It  seems  but 
yesterday  since  1  had  you  in  my  arms  rocking  you  asleep, 
and  now — and  now  they  tell  me  you  are  going  to  be 
married." 

The  sensitive  color  rose  over  his  face  for  a  second,  then 
faded,  leaving  him  very  pale. 

"  1  was  going  to  be  married,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  but 
she  does  not  know  this.  My  father  lives— the  title  and 
inheritance  are  his,  not  mine.  Who  is  to  tell  what  she  may 
say  now  ?  " 

The  dark,  thoughtful  eyes  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  Does  she  love  you  ?  "  she  asked;  "this  Miss  Darrell? 
I  need  hardly  inquire  whether  iw/  love  her." 

"  I  love  her  so  dearly  that  if  1  lose  iier — "  He  paused 
and  turned  his  face  away  from  her  in  the  gray  light.  "  I 
wish  1  had  known  this  from  the  first ;  I  ought  to  have 
known.      It  may  have   been  meant  in  kindness,   but  I 


238 


TO-MORROW. 


believe  it  was  a  mistake.  Heaven  knows  how  it  will  end 
now." 

"You  mean  to  say,  then,  that  in  the  hour  )'oii  lose  your 
title  and  inheritance  vou  also  lose  Miss  Darrell  ?  Is  that 
it  ?  " 

"  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  kind.  Edith  is  one  of  the 
noblest,  the  truest  of  women  ;  but  can't  you  see — it  looks 
as  though  she  had  been  deceived,  imposed  upon.  The  loss 
of  title  and  wealth  would  make  a  difference  to  any  woman 
on  earth." 

"  Very  little  to  a  woman  who  loves,  Victor.  I  hope — I 
hope — this  young  girl  loves  you  ?  " 

Again  the  color  rose  over  his  face — again  he  turned 
impatiently  away. 

"  She  will  love  me,"  he  answered  ;  "  she  has  promised  it, 
aiid  Edith  Darrell  is  a  girl  to  keep  her  word." 

"  So,"  Miss  Catheron  said,  softly  and  sadly,  "  it  is  the  old 
French  proverb  over  again,  '  There  is  always  one  who  loves, 
and  one  who  is  loved.'  She  has  owned  to  you  that  she  is 
not  in  love  with  you,  then  ?  Pardon  me,  Victor,  but  your 
happiness  is  very  near  to  me." 

"  She  has  owned  it,"  he  answered,  "  with  the  rare  no- 
bility and  candor  that  belongs  to  her.  Such  affection  as 
mine  will  win  its  return — 'love  begets  love,'  they  say.  It 
must" 

"  Not  always,  Victor — ah,  not  always,  else  what  a  happy 
woman  /  had  been  !  But  surely  she  cares  for  no  one 
else?" 

"  She  cares  for  no  one  else,"  he  answered,  doggedly 
enough,  but  in  his  inmost  heart  that  never-dying  jealousy 
of  Charley  Stuart  rankled.  "  She  cares  for  no  one  else — she 
has  told  me  so,  and  she  is  pride,  and  truth,  and  purity  itself. 
If  I  lose  her  through  this,  then  this  secret  of  insanity  will 
have  wrecked  forever  still  another  life." 

"If  she  is  what  you  picture  her,"  Inez  said,  steadily,  "no 
loss  of  rank  or  fortune  would  ever  make  her  give  you  u]). 
But  you  are  not  to  lose  either — you  need  not  even  tell  her, 
if  you  choose." 

"  I  can  have  no  secrets  from  my  plighted  wife — Edith 
must  know  all.  But  the  secret  will  be  as  safe  with  her  as 
with  me." 


TO-MORROW. 


239 


no 
lip. 
her, 

idith 
er  as 


"Very  well,"  she  said  quietly;  "you  know  what  the  re- 
sult will  be  if  by  any  chance  '  Mrs.  Victor  '  and  Inez  Cath- 
eron  are  discovered  to  be  one.  IJiit  it  shall  be  exactly  as 
you  please.  Your  father  is  as  dead  to  you,  to  all  the  woild, 
as  thuugli  he  lay  in  the  vaults  of  Oheshohn  church,  by  your 
mother's  side." 

"  My  poor  mother !  my  poor,  murdered,  unavenged 
mother  !  Inez  Catheron,  you  are  a  noble  woman — a  brave 
woman ;  was  it  well  to  aid  your  brother  to  escape  ? — was  it 
well,  for  tlie  sake  of  saving  tlie  Catheron  honor  and  the 
Catheron  name,  to  permit  a  most  cruel  and  cowardly  mur- 
der to  go  unavenged  ?  " 

What  was  it  that  looked  up  at  him  out  of  her  eyes?  In- 
finite i)ity,  infinite  sorrow,  infinite  pain. 

"  My  brother,"  she  repeated  softly,  as  if  to  herself ;  "poor 
Juan  !  he  was  the  scapegoat  of  the  family  always.  Yes,  Sir 
Victor,  it  was  a  cruel  and  cowardly  murder,  and  yet  I  l)e- 
lieve  in  my  soul  we  did  right  to  screen  the  murderer  from 
the  world.  It  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty — there  let  it 
rest." 

There  was  a  pause — then  : 

"I  shall  return  with  you  to  London  and  see  my  father," 
he  said,  as  one  who  claims  a  right. 

"  No,"  she  answered  firmly  ;  "  it  is  impossible.  Stay  ! 
Hear  me  out — it  is  your  father's  own  wish." 

"  My  father's  wish  I     But—" 

"He  cannot  express  a  wish,  you  would  say.  Of  late 
years,  Victor,  at  wide  intervals,  his  reason  has  returned  for 
a  brief  space — all  the  worse  for  him." 

"The  worse  for  him  !"  The  young  man  looked  at  her 
blankly.  "  Miss  Catheron,  do  you  mean  to  say  it  is  better 
for  him  to  be  mad  ?" 

"  Much  better — such  madness  as  his.  He  does  not  think 
— he  docs  not  suffer.  Memory  to  him  is  torture  ;  he  loved 
your  mother,  Victor — and  he  lost  her — terribly  lost  her. 
With  memory  returns  the  anguish  and  despair  of  that  loss 
as  though  it  were  but  yesterday.  If  you  saw  him  as  I  see  , 
him,  you  would  pray  as  I  do,  that  his  mind  might  be  blotted' 
out  forever." 

"  Good  Heaven  1  this  is  terrible." 

"  Life  is  full  of  terrible  things — tragedies,  secrets — this  is 


240 


TO-MORROIV. 


one  of  fhem.  In  these  rare  intervals  of  sanity  he  speaks  of 
you — it  is  he  wlio  directcJ,  in  case  of  your  marriage,  that 
you  should  be  told  this  much — that  you  are  not  to  be  brought 
to  see  him,  until — " 

Sh.o  i)aused. 

"Until—" 

"  Until  he  lies  upon  his  death-bed.  That  day  will  be 
soon,  Victor — soon,  soon.  Those  brief  glimpses  of  reason 
and  memory  have  shortened  life.  What  he  suffers  in  these 
intervals  no  words  of  mine  can  tell.  jOn  his  death-bed  you 
are  to  see  him — not  before  ;  and  then  you  shall  be  told  the 
story  of  your  mother's  death.  No,  Victor,  spare  me  now — 
all  I  can  tell  you  I  have  told.  I  return  home  by  the  noon- 
day train  ;  and,  before  I  go,  I  should  like  to  see  this  girl 
who  is  to  be  your  wife.  See,  I  will  remain  by  this  window, 
screened  by  the  curtain.  Can  you  not  fetch  her  by  some 
pretence  or  other  beneath  it,  that  I  may  look  and  judge  for 
myself?" 

"  1  can  try,"  he  said,  turning  to  go.  "  I  have  your  con- 
sent to  tell  her  my  father  is  alive  ?  I  will  tell  her  no  more 
— it  is  not  necessary  che  should  know^w/  are  his  keeper." 

"  That  much  you  may  tell  her — it  is  her  right.  When  I 
have  seen  her,  come  to  me  and  say  good-by." 

"  I  shall  not  say  good-by  until  1  say  it  at  Chester  Station. 
Of  course,  I  shall  see  you  off.  Wait  here  ;  if  Edith  is  able 
to  come  out  you  shall  see  her.  She  ke[)t  her  room  this 
morning  with  headache." 

He  left  her,  half-dazed  with  what  he  had  heard.  He 
went  to  the  drawing-room — the  Stuarts  and  Captain  Ham- 
mond were  there — not  Edith. 

"  Has  Edith  come  down  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  wish  to  speak 
to  her  for  a  moment." 

"  Edith  is  prowling  about  in  the  rain,  somewhere,  like  an 
uneasy  ghost,"  answered  Trixy  ;  "  no  doubt  wet  feet,  and 
discomfort,  and  dampness  generally  are  cures  for  headaciie  ; 
or,  perhaps,  she's  looking  for  jiw/." 

He  hardly  waited  to  hear  her  out  before  he  started  in 
pursuit.  As  if  favored  by  fortune,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Edith's  purple  dress  among  the  trees  in  the  distance.  She 
had  no  umbrella,  and  was  wandering  about  pale  and  listless 
in  the  rain. 


TO-MORROIV. 


241 


He 

un- 

peak 

e  an 
and 
.die  ; 

d  in 

■)se  of 

She 

stless 


*•  Kuith,"  Sir  Victor  exclaimed,  "  out  in  all  this  downpour 
without  an  umbrella  ?     You  will  get  your  death  of  cold." 

"  I  never  take  cold,"  she  answered  indifferentlv.  *'  I  al- 
ways  liked  to  run  out  in  the  rain  ever  since  I  was  a  child. 
I  must  be  an  amphibious  sort  of  animal,  I  think.  Besides, 
the  damp  air  helps  my  headache." 

He  drew  her  hand  witliin  his  arm  and  led  her  slowly  in 
the  direction  of  the  window  where  the  watcher  stood. 

"  Edith,"  he  began  abruptly,  "  I  have  news  for  you.  To 
call  it  bad  news  would  sound  inhuman,  and  yet  it  has  half- 
stunned  me.     It  is  this — my  father  is  alive." 

"  Sir  Victor  !  " 

"  Alive,  Edith — hopelessly  insane,  but  alive.  That  is 
the  news  Lady  Helena  and  one  other,  have  told  me  this 
morning  It  has  stunned  me  ;  I  rejieat — is  it  any  wonder  ? 
All  those  years  I  have  thought  him  dead,  and  to-day  I  dis- 
cover that  from  first  to  last  1  have  been  deceived." 

She  stood  mute  with  surprise.  His  father  alive — madness 
in  the  family.  Truly  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  Sir 
Victor  or  any  one  else  to  call  this  good  news.  They  were 
directly  beneath  the  window.  He  glanced  up — yes,  a  pale 
face  gleamed  from  behind  the  curtain,  gazing  down  at  that 
other  pale  face  by  Sir  Victor's  side.  Very  pale,  very  set 
just  now. 

"  Then  if  your  father  is  alive,  he  is  Sir  Victor  and  not 
you  ?  " 

Those  were  the  first  words  she  spoke  ;  her  tone  cold,  her 
glance  unsympathetic. 

His  heart  contracted. 

'*  He  will  never  interfere  with  my  claim — they  assure  me 
of  that.  Alive  in  reality,  he  is  dead  to  the  world.  Edith, 
would  it  make  any  difference — if  1  lost  title  and  estate, 
would  I  also  lose  you  i  " 

The  beseeching  love  in  his  eyes  might  have  moved  her, 
but  just  at  present  she  felt  as  though  a  stone  lay  in  her 
bosom  instead  of  a  heart. 

"  I  am  not  a  sentimental  sort  of  girl.  Sir  Victor,"  she  an- 
swered steadily.  "  I  am  almost  too  practical  and  worldly, 
perhajis.  And  I  must  own  it  would  make  a  difference.  I 
have  told  you  I  am  not  in  love  with  you—  as  yet — you  have 
elected  to  take  me  and  wait  for  that.  I  tell  you  now  truth- 
11 


242 


TO-MORROW. 


fully,  if  you  were  not  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  I  would  not 
marry  yon.  It  is  best  I  should  be  honest,  best  I  should  not 
deceive  you.  You  are  a  thousand  times  too  good  for  so 
mercenary  a  creature  as  1  am,  and  if  you  leave  me  it  will 
only  be  serving  me  right.  I  don't  w.mt  to  break  my  prom- 
ise, to  draw  back,  but  1  feel  in  the  mood  for  plain  speaking 
this  morning.  If  you  feel  that  you  can't  marry  me  on  those 
terms — and  I  don't  deserve  that  you  should — now  is  the 
time  to  speak.  No  one  will  be  readier  than  I  to  own  that 
it  serves  me  right." 

He  looked  and  listened,  pale  to  the  lips. 

"  Edith,  in  Heaven's  name,  do  you  wish  me  to  give  you 
up?" 

"  No,  I  wish  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  have  promised  to 
marry  you,  and  I  am  ready  to  keep  that  jiruniise ;  but  if 
you  expect  love  or  devotion  from  me,  I  tell  you  frankly  I 
have  neither  to  give.  If  you  are  willing  still  to  take  me, 
and" — smiling — "I  see  you  are — I  am  still  ready  to  be 
your  wife — your  true  and  faithful  wife  from  the  first — ^your 
loving  wife,  I  hope,  in  the  end." 

They  said  no  more.  He  led  her  back  to  the  house,  then 
left  her.  He  hastened  to  Miss  Catheron,  more  sombre 
even  than  when  he  had  quitted  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said  briefly,  "you  saw  her?" 

"  I  saw  her.  It  is  a  beautiful  face,  a  proud  face,  a  truth- 
ful face,  and  yet — " 

"  Go  on,"  he  said  impatiently.  "  Don't  try  to  spare  me. 
I  am  growing  ;'CCustomed  to  unpleasant  truths." 

"  1  may  be  wrong,  but  something  in  her  face  tells  me  she 
docs  not  love  you,  and,"  under  her  breath.  "  never  will." 

"  It  will  come  in  time.  With  or  without  love,  she  is  will- 
ing to  be  my  wife — that  is  happiness  enough  for  the  pres- 

"You  told  her  all?" 

"  I  told  her  my  father  was  alive  and  insane — no  more. 
It  will  make  no  ditference  in  our  plans — none.  We  are  to 
be  married  the  first  of  September.  The  secret  is  safe  with 
her." 

The  door  opened,  and  Lady  Helena  came  hastily  in. 

"  If  you  wish  to  catch  the  12.50  train,  Inez,"  she  said, 
"you  must  go  at  once.     It  is  a  long  drive  from  this  to  the 


s; 
ti 


I 
t 

01 

Ih 

c:i 
ca 
lai 

tu 


TO-MORROIV. 


243 


station.  The  brougham  is  waiting — shall  I  accompany 
you  ?  " 

"  I  will  accompany  her,"  said  Sir  Victor.  "  You  had 
better  return  to  our  guests.  They  will  begin  to  feel  them- 
selves neglected." 

Miss  Catheron  left  the  room.  In  five  minutes  she  roap- 
l^earcd,  closely  veiled,  as  when  he  had  met  her  on  the  stairs. 
The  adieux  were  hastily  made.  He  gave  her  his  arm  and 
led  her  down  to  the  close  brougham.  As  they  passed  be- 
fore the  drawing-room  windows,  Miss  Stuart  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation : 

"  Oh  !  1  say  !  wliere  is  Sir  Victor  going  in  the  rain,  and 
who  is  the  dismal-looking  lady  in  black.  ?  Edith,  who  is  it  ? 
You  ought  V I  know." 

"I  don't  Icnow,"  Edith  answered  briefly,  not  looking  up 
from  her  book. 

"  Hasn't  Sir  Victor  told  you  ?" 

"I  haven't  asked  Sir  Victor." 

"  Oh,  you  haven't,  and  he  hasn't  told  ?  Well,  all  I  have  to 
say  is,  that  when  Vm  engaged  I  hope  the  object  of  my  affec- 
tions will  keep  no  secrets  from  me." 

"  As  if  he  could  !  "  murmurs  CaiUain  Hammond. 

"  I  declare,  he  is  going  off  with  her.  Edith,  do  come  and 
look.  There !  they  are  driving  away  together,  as  fast  as 
they  can  go." 

Hut  Edith  never  stirred.  If  she  felt  the  slightest  curiosity 
on  the  subject,  her  face  did  not  show  it. 

They  drove  rapidly  through  the  rain,  and  barely  caugiit 
the  train  at  that.  He  placed  her  hurriedly  in  an  eirnty 
carriage,  a  moment  before  it  started.  As  it  flew  by  he 
caught  one  last  glimpse  of  a  veiled  face,  and  a  hand  waving 
farewell.     Then  the  train  and  the  woman  were  out  of  sight. 

Like  a  man  who  walks  in  his  sleep,  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
turned,  re-entered  the  brougham,  and  was  driven  home. 


said, 
the 


f 


244 


LADV  //ELENA'S  BALL. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


LADY  HELENA'S  BALL. 


HREE  days  after,  on  Thursday,  the  fifth  of  June, 
Lady  Helena  Powyss  gave  a  very  large  dinner- 
party, followed  by  a  ball  in  honor  of  her  American 
guests.  When  it  is  your  good  fortune  to  number 
half  a  county  among  your  friends,  relatives,  and  acquaint- 
ances, it  is  possible  to  be  at  once  numerous  and  select. 
The  creme  de  la  creme  of  Cheshire  assembled  in  Lady  Hel- 
ena's halls  of  dazzling  light,  to  do  honor  to  Sir  Victor  Calh- 
eron's  bride-elect. 

For  the  engagement  had  been  formally  announced,  and 
was  the  choice  bit  of  gossip,  with  which  the  shire  regaled  itself. 
Sir  Victor  Catheron  was  following  in  the  footsteps  of  his 
father,  and  was  about  to  bring  to  Catheron  Royals  one  of 
the  lower  orders  as  its  mistress.  It  was  the  Dobl)  blood  no 
doubt  cropping  up — these  sort  of  mesalliances  w///  tell.  An 
American,  too — a  governess,  a  poor  relation  of  some  com- 
mon rich  people  from  the  States.  The  best  county  Himili'S, 
with  daugiuers  to  marry,  shook  their  heads.  It  was  very  sad 
—  "rry  sad,  to  see  a  good  old  name  and  a  good  old  family 
degenerate  in  this  way.  But  there  was  always  a  taint  of 
madness  in  the  Catheron  blood — that  accounted  for  a  good 
deal.     Poor  Sir  Victor — and  poor  Lady  Helena  ► 

But  everybody  came.  They  might  be  dee])ly  sliocked  and 
sorry,  but  still  Sir  Victor  Catheron  icas  Sir  Victor  Catheron, 
the  richest  baronet  in  the  county,  and  Catheron  Royals  al- 
ways a  pleasant  house  to  visit — the  reigning  Lady  Catheron 
always  a  desi.able  acquaintance  on  one's  visiting-list.  No- 
body acknowledged,  of  course,  they  went  from  i)ure,  down- 
right curiosity,  to  see  this  manoeuvring  American  girl,  who 
had  taken  Sir  Victor  Catheron  captive  under  the  aristocratic 
noses  of  the  best-born,  best-bred,  best-blooded  young  ladies 
in  a  circuit  of  twenty  miles. 

The  eventful  night  came — the  night  of  Edith's  ordeal. 
Even  Trix  was  a  little  nervous — only  a  little — is  not  perfect 
self-possession  the  normal  slute  of  American  young  lady- 
dom  ?     Lady  Helena  was  quite  pale  in  her  anxiety.     The 


LADY  HELENA'S  BALL. 


245 


girl  was  handsome  beyond  dispute,  thoroughbred  as  a  young 
countess,  despite  iier  birth  and  bringing  up  in  a  New  Englantl 
town  antl  Yankee  boarding  house,  with  pride  enough  for  a 
])riucess  of  forty  quarteriugs,  /;///  how  would  she  come  forth 
from  the  fiery  furuacc  of  all  those  i)itilesi  eyes,  sharjjened  to 
points  to  watch  for  gauchories  and  solecisms  of  good  breed- 
iiig — from  the  merciless  tongues  that  would  hang,  draw,  and 
quarter  her,  the  instant  their  owners  were  out  of  the  house. 

"  Don't  you  feel  nervous,  Dithy  ? "  asked  Trix,  almost 
out  of  patience  at  last  with  Edith's  serene  calm.  "  I  do — 
horribly.  And  Lady  Helena  has  got  a  fit  of  the  fidgets  that 
will  bring  her  gray  hairs  to  an  early  grave,  if  this  day  lasts 
much  longer.     Ain't  you  afraid — honor  bright  ?  " 

Edith  Darrell  lifted  her  dark,  disdainful  eyes.  She  sat 
reading,  while  the  afternoon  wore  on,  and  Trixy  fussed  and 
iluttcretl  about  the  room. 

"Afraid  of  the  pec^ple  who  are  coming  here  to-ni;:ht — is 
that  what  you  mean  ?  Not  a  whit !  I  know  as  well  \  uii 
do,  they  are  coming  to  insjiect  and  find  fault  with  Sir  v  i  tor 
Catheron's  choice,  to  pity  him,  and  call  me  an  adventuiess. 
J  know  also  that  any  one  of  these  young  ladies  would  have 
married  him,  and  said  'Thank  you  for  asking,'  if  he  had  seen 
fit  to  choose  them.  I  have  my  own  pride  and  Sir  Victor's 
good  taste  to  uphold  to-night,  and  1  will  uphold  them.  1 
think  " — she  lifted  her  haughty,  dark  head,  and  glanced,  with  a 
half-conscious  smile,  in  the  pier-glass  ojjposite — "I  think  I 
can  bear  comparison  by  lamplight  with  any  of  these 
'daughters  of  a  hundred  earls,'  such  as — Lady  Gwendoline 
Drexel  for  instance." 

"By  lamplight,"  Trix  said,  ignoring  the  rest  of  her  speech. 
"Ah,  yes,  that's  the  worst  of  it,  Edith  ;  you  dark  people  al- 
ways light  up  well.  And  Lady  Gwendoline  Drexel — I  wonder 
what  Lady  Gwendoline  will  wear  to-night  ?  1  should  like  to 
be  the  best-dressed  young  lady  rt  the  ball.  Do  you  know, 
Dith,"  spitefiilly  this,  "  1  think  Charley  is  quite  struck  with 
Lady  (iwendoline.  You  noticed,  1  suppose,  the  attention 
he  paid  her  the  evening  we  met,  and  then  he  has  been  to 
Drexel  Court  by  invitation.  Pa  is  most  anxious,  1  know. 
Money  will  be  no  object,  you  know,  with  Charley,  and  really 
it  would  be  nice  to  have  a  tilled  sister-in-law.  '  My  sister. 
Lady  Gwendoline   Stuart,'    will    sound   very   well  in    New 


246 


LADY  HELENA'S  BALL. 


York,  won't  it?     It  would   be  a  very  suitable   match   for 
Charley." 

"  A  most  suitable  match,"  Miss  DarrcU  repeated;  "age 
included.  She  is  ten  years  his  senior  if  a  day  ;  but  wliere 
true  love  exists,  what  docs  a  trille  of  years  on  either  side 
signify  ?  He  has  money — she  has  rank.  He  has  youth  and 
good  looks — she  has  higli  iiii  lii  and  a  handle  to  her  name. 
As  you  say,  Trixy,  n  n)ost  suitable  match  !  " 

And  then  Miss  Darrell  went  back  to  her  book,  but  the 
slender,  black  brows  were  meeting  in  a  steady  frown,  that 
quite  spoiled  her  beauty — no  doubt  at  something  displeas- 
ing in  the  pages. 

"  But  you  mustn't  sit  here  all  day,"  broke  in  Trix  again; 
"  it's  high  time  you  were  up  in  your  dressing-room.  VVhat 
are  you  going  to  wear,  Dith  ?" 

■  1  have  not  decided  yet.  I  don't  much  care  ;  it  doesn't 
much  matter.  I  have  decided  to  look  my  best  in  any- 
tliing." 

She  arose  and  sauntered  out  of  the  room,  and  was  seen  no 
more,  until  the  waxlights  blazed  from  end  to  end  of  tlie 
great  mansion  and  the  June  dusk  liad  deepened  into  dewy 
night.  Then,  as  the  roll  of  carriages  came  without  ceasing 
along  the  drive,  she  descended,  arrayed  for  battle,  to  fmd 
her  impatient  slave  and  adorer  awaiting  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  grand  stairway.  Siie  smihxl  ui)on  him  her  brightest, 
most  beaming  smile,  a  smile  that  into\.i;ated  him  at  sight. 

"Will  I  do.  Sir  Victor?"  she  asked. 

Would  she  do?  He  looked  at  her  as  a  man  may  look 
half  dazzled,  at  the  sun.  He  could  not  have  told  you  what  she 
wore,  pink  and  white  ck)uds  it  seemed  to  him — he  only 
knew  two  brown,  luminous,  laughing  eyes  were  looking 
straiglU  into  his,  and  turning  his  brain  with  llieir  spell. 

"  You  are  sure  1  will  do  i*  You  are  sure  you  will  not  be 
ashamed  of  me  to-night?"  her  laughing  voice  asked  again. 

Ashamed  of  her — ashamed!  lie  laughetl  aloud  at  the 
stupendous  joke,  as  he  drew  Iier  arm  witiiin  his,  and  led  her 
into  the  thronged  rooms,  as  some  favored  subject  may  once 
in  his  life  lead  in  a  (lueen. 

Perhaps  there  was  excuse  for  him.  "  I  shall  look  my  best 
in  anything,"  she  had  said,  in  her  disdain,  and  :  he  had  kept 
her  word.     She  wore  a  dress  that  seemed  alternately  com- 


LADY  HELENA'S  BALL. 


247 


posed  of  white  tulle  and  bliish-roses  ;  she  had  roses  in  lier 
rich,  dark  liair,  hair  always  beautifully  worn  ;  Sir  Victor's 
diamond  betrothal  ring  shone  on  herfuiger ;  round  her  arch- 
ing throat  she  wore  a  slender  line  of  yellow  gold,  a  locket 
set  with  brilliants  attaciied.  The  locket  had  been  Lady 
Helena's  gift,  and  held  Sir  Victor's  portrait.  That  was  her 
ball  array,  and  she  looked  as  though  she  were  floating  in  her 
fleecy  white  dra])eries,  her  perfumery,  roses,  and  sparkling 
diamonds.  The  dark  eyes  outshone  the  diamonds,  a  soft 
flush  warmed  either  cheek.  Yes,  she  was  beautiful ;  so 
beautiful  that  saner  men  than  her  accepted  lover,  might  have 
been  iiardoned  if  for  a  moment  they  lost  their  heads. 

I-ady  Helena  Powyss,  in  sweeping  moire  and  jev/els,  re- 
ceiving her  guests,  looked  at  her  and  drew  one  long  breath 
of  great  relief  She  might  have  spared  herself  all  her  anx,- 
ious  doubts  and  fears — low-born  and  penniless  as  she  was, 
Sir  Victor  Catheron's  bride  would  do  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
honor  to-night. 

Trix  was  there — Tiix  resplendent  in  pearl  silk  with  a  train 
half  the  length  of  the  room,  pearl  silk,  point  lace,  white- 
camelias,  and  Neapolitan  corals  and  cameos,  incrusted  with 
diamonds — Trix,  in  all  the  fmery  six  thousand  dollars  can 
buy,  drew  a  long  breath  of  great  and  bitter  envy. 

"  If  one  wore  the  Koh-i-noor  and  Coronation  Robes," 
thought  Miss  Stuart  sadly,  '*  she  would  shine  one  down. 
She  is  dazzling  to-night.  Cajitain  Hammond,"  tajiping  that 
young  warrior  with  her  point-lace  fan,  "don't  you  think  Edith 
is  without  exception  the  most  beautiful  and  elegant  girl  in 
the  rooms  ?  " 

And  the  gallant  captain  bows  profoundly,  and  answers 
with  a  look  that  jjoints  the  speech  : 

"With  one  exception.  Miss  J5eatri.x,  only  one." 

Charely  is  there,  and  perhaps  there  can  be  no  doubt  about 
it,  that  Charley  is,  without  exception,  far  and  away,  the  best 
looking  man.  Charley  gazes  at  his  cousin  for  an  instant  on 
the  arm  of  her  proud  and  hapjjy  lover,  radiant  and  smiling, 
the  centre  of  all  that  is  best  in  the  room.  Siie  lifts  her  dark, 
laughing  eyes  as  it  chances,  and  brown  and  gray  meet  full. 
Then  he  turns  away  to  a  tall,  languid  rather  passive  lady, 
who  is  talking  slowly  by  his  side. 

"  Is  Miss  Darrell  really  his  cousin  ?     Really  ?     How  ex- 


248 


LADY  HELENA'S  BALL. 


tremely  handsome  she  is,  and  how  perfectly  infatnati-d  Sir 
Victor  seems.  Poor  Sir  Victor  !  What  a  pity  there  is  in- 
sanity in  tlie  family — insanity  is  such  a  very  shocking  thing. 
How  pretty  AFiss  Stuart  is  looking  this  evening.  She  has 
heard — is  it  true — can  Mr.  Stuart  inform  her — are  «// Amer- 
ican girls  handsome  ?  " 

And  Charley — as  Captain  Hammond  has  done — bows,  and 
looks,  and  replies : 

"  I  used  to  think  so,  I.ady  Gwendohne.  I  have  seen 
English  girls  since,  and  think  differently." 

Oh,  the  imbecile  falsehoods  of  society  !  He  is  thinking, 
as  he  says  it,  how  ])allid  and  faded  poor  Lady  Gwendoline  is 
looking,  in  her  dingy  green  satin  and  white  Brussels  lace 
overdress,  her  emeralds  and  bright  golden  hair — most  beau- 
tiful and  most  expensive  shade  to  be  had  in  I^ndon.  He 
is  thinking  how  the  Blanc  de  Ferle  and  rouge  vegetal  is  show- 
ing on  her  three-and-thirty-year-old  face,  and  what  his  life 
would  be  like  if  he  listened  to  his  father  and  married  her.  He 
shudders  inwardly  and  gives  it  up — "that  way  madnesslies," 
and  while  there  is  a  |)istol  left,  wherewith  to  blow  his  brains 
out,  he  can  still  hope  to  escape  a  worse  fate. 

But  Lady  Gwendoline,  freighted  with  eleven  seasons'  ex- 
perience, and  growing  seedy  and  desperate,  clings  to  him  as 
the  drowning  cling  to  straws.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  i)eer, 
but  there  are  five  younger  sisters,  all  plain  and  all  portion- 
less. Her  elder  sister,  who  chaperones  her  to-night,  is  the 
wife  of  a  rich  and  retired  manufacturer,  Lady  Portia  Hamp- 
ton. The  rich  and  retired  manufacturer  has  purchased 
Drexel  Court,  and  it  is  Lady  Portia's  painful  duty  to  try  and 
marry  her  sisters  off. 

The  ball  is  a  great  success  for  Miss  Edith  Darrell.  The 
men  rave  about  her  ;  the  women  may  sneer,  but  they  must 
do  it  covertly ;  her  beauty  and  her  grace,  her  elegance  and 
high  breeding,  not  the  most  envious  dare  dispute.  Music 
swells  and  floats  deliciously — scores  are  suitors  for  her  hand 
in  the  dance.  The  Hush  deepens  on  her  dusk  cheeks,  the 
streaming  light  in  her  starry  eyes — she  is  dangerously  bril- 
liant to-night.  Sir  Victor  follows  in  her  train  whenever  his 
duties  allow  him  ;  when  he  dances  with  others  his  eyes 
follow  his  heart,  and  go  after  her.     There  is  but  one  in  all 


LADY  HELENA'S  BALL. 


249 


those  thronged  rooms  for  him — one  who  is  his  idol — his  dar- 
ling—the piide,  the  joy,  the  desire  of  his  life. 

"  i\Ty  dear,  I  am  proud  of  you  to-night,"  Lady  Helena 
wliispers  once.     "  You  surpass  yourself — you  are  lovely  be-« 
yond  compare.     You  do  us  all  credit." 

And  Edith  Darrell's  haughty  eyes  look  up  for  a  moment 
and  they  are  Hashing  through  tears.  She  lifts  the  lady's  hand 
-with  exquisite  grace,  and  kisses  it.  Then  smiles  chase  the 
tears,  and  she  is  gone  on  the  arm  of  some  devoted  cavalier. 
Once — only  once,  she  dances  with  Charley.  She  has  striven 
to  avoid  him — no,  not  that  either — it  is  lie  who  has  avoided 
her.  She  has  seen  him — let  her  be  surrounded  by  scores,  she 
has  seen  him  whispering  with  Lady  Gwendoline,  dancing  with 
Lady  Gwendoline,  fanning  Lady  Gwendoline,  flirting  with 
Lady  Gwendoline.  It  is  Lady  Gwendoline  he  leads  to  sup- 
per, and  it  is  after  supper,  with  the  enchanting  strains  of  a 
Strauss  waltz  filling  the  air,  that  he  comes  up  and  asks  her 
for  that  dance. 

"  I  am  sure  I  deserve  it  for  my  humility,"  he  says  plain- 
tively. "  I  have  stood  in  the  background,  humbly  and  afar 
off,  and  given  you  ui^  to  my  betters.  Surely,  after  all  the 
bitter  pills  I  have. been  swallowing,  I  deserve  (?«^  sugar- 
l)lum." 

She  laughs — glances  at  Sir  Victor,  making  his  way  toward 
her,  takes  his  arm  rather  hurriedly,  and  moves  off". 

"  Is  Lady  Gwendoline  a  pill,  or  a  sugar-plum  ?  "  she  asks. 
"  You  certainly  seem  to  have  had  an  overdose  of  her." 

"  I  owe  Lady  Gwendoline  my  deepest  thanks,"  he  an- 
swered gravely.  "  Her  efforts  to  keep  me  amused  this  even- 
ing, have  been  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  If  the  deepest 
gratitude  of  a  too-trusting  heart,"  says  Charley,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  left  side  of  his  white  waistcoat,  "  be  any  reward 
for  such  service,  it  is  hers." 

They  float  away.  To  lulith  it  is  the  one  dance  of  the 
night.  She  hardly  knows  whether  she  whirls  in  air  or  on  the 
waxed  floor  ;  she  only  knows  that  it  is  like  heaven,  that  the 
music  is  celestial,  and  that  it  is  Charley's  arm  that  is  clasp- 
ing her  close.  Will  she  ever  wait/,  with  him  again  she  won- 
ders, and  she  feels,  feels  in  her  inmost  heart,  that  she  is  sin- 
ning against  her  afllianced  husband  in  waltzing  with  him  now. 
But  it  is  so  delicious — what  a  pity  most  of  the  delicious  things 
11* 


250 


"O  A/y  COUSIN  SHALLOW-HEARTED." 


of  earth  sboiild  be  wrong.  If  it  could  only  last  forever — for- 
ever !     And  while  she  thinks  it,  it  stops. 

"  O  Charley  !  that  7vas  a  waltz  !  "  she  says,  leaning  on 
.him  heavily,  and  panting  ;  '*  no  one  else  has  my  step  as  you 
have  it." 

"  Let  us  trust  that  Sir  Victor  will  learn  it,"  he  responds 
coolly  ;  "  here  he  comes  now.  It  was  a  charming  waltz, 
Dithy,  but  charming  thmgs  must  end.  Your  lawful  propri- 
etor approaches  ;  to  your  lawful  proprietor  I  resign  you. " 

He  was  perfectly  uuflushcd,  perfectly  unoxcitcd.  He 
bows,  smile-s,  yields  her  to  Sir  Victor,  and  saunters  away. 
Five  seconds  later  he  is  bending  over  Lady  Gwendoline's 
chair,  whispering  'u\  the  pink,  patrician  ear  resting  against 
the  glistening,  golden  chignon.  Edith  looks  once — in  her 
heart  she  hates  Lady  Gwendoline — looks  once,  and  looks  no 
more. 

And  as  the  serene  June  morning  dawns,  and  larks  and 
thrushes  pipe  in  the  trees.  Lady  Helena's  dear  five  hundred 
'  friends,  sleepy  and  pallid,  get  into  their  carriages  and  go 
home. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

"  O    MV   COUSIN    SHALLOW-HEARTED  !  " 


HE  middle  of  the  day  is  past  before  one  by  one 
they  straggle  down.  Breakfast  awaits  eacli  new- 
comer, hot  and  tempting.  Trix  eats  hers  with  a 
relish.  Trix  possesses  one  of  the  chief  elements  of 
perpetual  human  hapjnness — an  appetite  that  never  fails,  a 
digestion  that,  in  her  own  metapiiorical  American  language, 
*'  never  goes  back  on  her."  But  Edith  looks  fagged  and 
si)iritless.  If  people  are  to  be  supernaturally  brilliant  and 
bright,  dashing  and  fascinating  all  nv'^ht  long,  people  must 
expect  to  pay  the  penalty  next  day,  when  lassitude  and  reac- 
tion set  in. 

"  My  poor  Edie ! "  Mr.  Charles  Stuart  remarks,  compas- 
sionately, glancing  at  the  wan  cheeks  and  lustreless  eyes,  as 
he  lights  his  after-breakfast  cigar,  "  you  do  look  most  aw- 


"0  MY  COUSIN  SHALLOW-HEARTED  » 


251 


as 


fully  used  up.  What  a  pity  for  their  peace  of  mind,  some  of 
your  frantic  adorers  of  last  night  can't  see  you  now.  Let 
me  reconinicnd  you  to  go  back  to  bed  and  try  an  S.  and  B." 

"An  'S.  and  H.' ?  "  Edith  repeats  vaguely. 

"Soda  and  Ikandy.  It's  the  thing,  depend  upon  it,  for 
such  a  case  as  yours.  I've  been  seedy  myself  before  now, 
and  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I'll  mix  it  for  you,  if  you 
like." 

There  is  a  copy  of  Tennyson,  in  blue  and  gold,  beside 
Miss  Darrell,  and  Miss  Darrell's  reply  is  to  fling  it  at  Mr. 
Stuart's  head.  It  is  a  last  effort  of  expiring  nature  ;  she  sinks 
back  exhausted  among  her  cushions.  Charley  departs  to 
enjoy  his  Manila  put  under  the  waving  trees,  and  Sir  Victor, 
looking  fresh  and  recuperated,  strolls  in  and  bends  over  her. 

"  My  dear  Edith,"  he  says,  "  how  pale  you  are  this  morn- 
ing— how  tired  you  look.  If  one  ball  is  going  to  exhaust 
j'ou  like  this,  how  will  you  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  Lon- 
don seasons  in  the  blissful  time  to  come  ?" 

She  does  not  blush — she  turns  a  trifle  impatiently  away 
from  him  and  looks  out.  She  can  see  Charley  and  Ham- 
mond smoking  sociably  together  in  the  sunny  distance. 

"  I  will  grow  used  to  it,  I  dare  say.  '  Sufficient  unto  the  day 
is  the  evil  thereof  " 

"  Have  you  had  breakfast  ?  " 

"  I  made  an  effort  and  failed.  I  watched  Trix  eat  hers, 
however,  and  that  refreshed  me  quite  as  well.  It  was  invig- 
orating only  to  look  at  her." 

He  smiles  and  bends  lower,  drawing  one  long  brown 
silken  tress  of  hair  fondly  through  his  fingers,  feeling  as 
though  he  would  like  to  stoop  and  kiss  the  pale,  weary  face. 
But  Trix  is  over  yonder,  pretending  to  read,  and  kissing  is 
not  to  be  thought  of. 

"  I  am  going  over  to  Catheron  Royals,"  he  whispered  , 
"  supi^ose  you  come — the  walk  will  do  you  good.  I  am  giv- 
ing orders  about  the  fitting  up  of  the  old  place.  Did  I  tell 
you  the  workmen  came  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  you  told  me." 

"  Shall  I  ring  for  your  hat  and  parasol  ?  Do  come, 
Edith." 

"  Excuse  me,  Sir  Victor,"  Edith  answers,  with  an  im[)a- 
tient  motion.     "  I  feel  too  tired — too  lazy,  which  ever  you 


2:2        "0  MY  COUSIN  SHALLOW-HEARTED." 


like — fo  stir.  Some  other  day  I  will  go  with  pleasure— just 
now  I  feel  like  lying  here  and  doing  the  dolce  Jar  iiiciite. 
IJon't  let  me  detain  you,  however." 

He  turns  to  leave  her  with  a  disappointed  face.  Edith 
closes  her  eyes  and  takes  an  easier  position  among  the  pil- 
lows. The  door  closes  behind  him ;  Trix  flings  down  her 
book  and  bursts  forth  : 

"  Of  all  the  heartless,  cold-blooded  animals  it  has  ever 
been  my  good  fortune  to  meet,  commend  me  to  Edith  Dar- 
rell !  " 

The  dark  eyes  unclose  and  look  up  at  her. 

"  My  dear  Trix  !  what's  the  matter  with  you  now?  What 
new  enormity  have  I  committed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  new — nothing  new  at  all,"  is  Trixy's  scorn- 
ful response ;  "  it  is  quite  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  your 
conduct.  To  be  purely  and  entirely  scll"ish  is  the  normal 
state  of  the  future  Lady  Catheron  !  Poor  Sir  Victor  !  who 
has  won  you.  Poor  Charley  1  who  has  lost  you.  I  hardly 
know  which  I  pity  most." 

"I  don't  see  that  you  need  waste  your  precious  pity  on 
either,"  answered  Edith,  perfectly  unmoved  by  Miss  Stuart's 
vituperation  ;  "  keep  it  for  me.  1  shall  make  Sir  Victor  a 
very  good  wife  as  wives  go,  and  for  Charley — well.  Lady 
Gwendoline  is  left  to  console  him." 

"Yes,  of  course,  there  is  Lady  Gv/endoline.  O  Edith! 
Edith  !  what  are  you  made  of?  Flesh  and  blood  like  other 
people,  or  waxwork,  with  a  stone  for  a  heart  ?  How  can 
you  sell  yourself,  as  you  are  going  to  do  ?  Sir  Victor  Cath- 
eron is  no  i*iore  to  you  than  his  hall-porter,  and  yet  you  per- 
sist in  marrying  him.  You  love  my  brother  and  yet  you 
hand  him  over  to  Lady  Gwendoline.  Come,  Edith,  be  hon- 
est for  once  ;  you  love  Charley,  don't  you?" 

"It  is  rather  late  in  the  day  for  such  tender  confessions  as 
that,"  Edith  replies,  with  a  reckless  sort  of  laugh  ;  "but  yes 
— if  the  declaration  does  you  any  good,  Trix — X  love  Char- 
ley." 

"  And  you  give  him  up  !  Miss  Darrell,  I  give  you  up  as 
a  conundrum  I  can't  solve.  Rank  and  title  are  all  very  well 
— nobody  thinks  more  of  them  than  I  do;  but  if/  loved  a 
man,"  cried  Trix,  with  kindling  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks, 
"  I'd  marry  hiini !     Yes;  I  would,  though  he  were  a  beggar." 


*«0  MV  COUSIN  SHALLOW-HEARTED." 


253 


Edith  looked  up  at  her  kindly,  with  a  smothered  sigh. 

"  I  believe  you,  Ti  ix  ;  but  then  you  are  different  from  nie." 
She  half-raised  herself,  looking  dreamily  out  on  the  sunlit 
prospect  of  lawn,  and  coppice,  and  woodland.  "  Here  it  is  : 
I  love  Charley,  but  I  love  myself  better.  O  Trix,  child, 
don't  let  us  talk  about  it ;  I  am  tired,  and  my  head  aches." 
She  pushed  back  the  heavy,  dark  hair  wearily  oft  her  temples 
with  both  hands.  I  am  what  you  call  me,  a  selfish  wretch — 
a  heartless  little  brute — and  I  am  going  to  marry  Sir  Victor 
Catiieron.  Pity  him,  if  you  like,  poor  fellow !  for  he  loves 
me  with  his  whole  heart,  and  he  is  a  brave  and  loyal  gentle- 
man. But  don't  pity  your  brother,  my  dear  ;  believe  me,  he 
doesn't  need  it.  He's  a  good  fellow,  Charley,  and  he  likes 
me,  but  he  won't  break  his  heart  or  commit  suicide  while  he 
has  a  ci^rar  left." 

"  Here  he  comes  I  "  exclaimed  Trix,  "  and  I  believe  he 
has  heard  us." 

"Let  him  come,"  Edith  returns,  lying  listlessly  back  among 
her  cushions  once  more.  "  It  doesn't  matter  if  he  has.  It 
will  be  no  news  to  ///;//." 

"It  is  a  pity  you  should  miss  each  other,  though,"  Trix 
says  sarcastically,  as  she  turns  to  go  ;  "  such  thorough  phi- 
losophers both  ;  I  believe  you  were  made  for  each  other,  and, 
as  far  as  easy-going  selfishness  is  concerned,  there  is  little  to 
choose  between  you.  It's  a  thousand  pities  Sir  Victor  can't 
hear  all  this." 

"  He  might  if  he  liked,"  is  Edith's  answer.  "I  shouldn't 
care.  Charley!"  as  Charley  comes  in  and  Trix  goes  out, 
*'  have  you  been  eavesdropping  ?  Don't  deny  it,  sir,  if  you 
have!" 

Charley  takes  a  jiosition  in  an  easy-chair  some  yards  dis- 
tant, and  looks  at  her  lying  there,  languid  and  lovely. 

"  I  have  been  eavesdropping — I  never  deny  my  small 
vices.  Hanunond  left  me  to  go  to  the  stables,  ami,  strolling 
under  the  window,  I  overheard  you  and  Trix.  0|)en  confes- 
sion is  beneficial,  no  doubt ;  but,  my  dear  cousin,  you  really 
shouldn't  make  it  in  so  audiblG  a  tone.  It  might  have  been 
Sir  Victor  instead  of  me." 

She  says  nothing.  The  sombre  look  he  has  learned  to 
know  is  in  her  dusk  eyes,  on  her  dark,  colorless  face. 

"  Poor  Sir  Victor  !  "  he  goes  on  ;  *'  he  loves  you — not  a 


254 


"  0  iVY  COUSIN  shallow-hearted:' 


doubt  of  tliat,  Dithy — to  the  deptlis  of  idiocy,  where  you 
know  so  well  how  to  cast  your  vicliins  ;  but  hard  hit  as  he 
is,  I  wonder  what  he  would  say  if  he  heard  all  this  ! " 

"You  might  tell  him,  Charley,"  Mdith  says.  "  I  shouldn't 
mind  much,  and  he  mi;^IU  jilt  me— who  can  tell  ?  I  think 
it  would  do  us  both  good.  You  could  say,  '  Look  here  :  don't 
marry  Edith  Darrcll,  Sir  Victor;  she  isn't  worthy  of  you  or 
any  good  man.  She  is  full  of  jiride,  vanity,  ambition,  sel- 
fishness, ill-temper,  cynicism,  and  all  uncharitableness.  She 
is  blase  at  nineteen  — think  what  she  will  be  at  nine-and- 
twenly.  She  doesn't  love  you — 1  know  her  well  enough  to 
be  sure  she  never  will,  partly  because  a  heart  was  left  out  in 
her  hard  anatomy,  ])artly  because — because  all  the  liking  she 
ever  had  to  give,  went  long  ago  to  somebody  else.'  Charley, 
I  think  he  would  give  me  up,  and  I'd  respect  him  for  it,  if 
he  knew  that.  Tell  him,  if  you  have  the  courage,  and  when 
he  casts  me  off,  come  to  me  and  make  me  marry  you.  You 
can  do  it,  you  know ;  and  when  the  honeymoon  is  over — 
when  poverty  stalks  in  at  the  door  and  love  flics  out  of  the 
window — when  we  hate  each  other  as  only  ill-assorted  wives 
and  husbands  ever  hate — let  the  thought  that  we  have  done 
the  '  All  for  love,  and  the  world  well  lost '  business,  to  the 
bitter  end,  console  us." 

She  laughs  recklessly  ;  she  feels  reckless  enough  to  say 
anything,  do  anything,  this  morning.  Love,  ambition,  rank, 
wealth — what  empty  baubles  they  all  look,  seen  through 
tired  eyes  the  day  after  a  ball  ! 

He  sits  silent,  watching  her  thoughtfully. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Ixlith,"  he  says.  "I  feel  like 
asking  you  the  same  question  Trix  did.  IVliy  do  you  marry 
Sir  Victor?  " 

"  Why  do  I  marry  him  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Well — a  little 
because  of  his  handsome  face  and  stately  bearing,  and  the 
triumph  of  carrying  off  a  jirizc,  for  which  your  Lady  Gwen- 
doline and  half  a  score  more  have  battled.  A  little  because 
he  pleads  so  elo(iuently,  and  loves  me  as  no  other  mortal 
man  did,  or  ever  will ;  and  oh  !  Charley,  a  great  deal  because 
he  is  Sir  Victor  Catheron  of  Catheron  Royals,  with  a  rent- 
roll  of  twenty  thousand  a  year,  and  more,  and  a  name  that 
is  older  than  Magna  Charta.  If  there  be  any  virtue  in  truth, 
there — you  have  it,  plain,  unvarnished.      I  like  him — who 


"0  JlfV  COUSIN  SI/ALLOIV-IIEARTED." 


255 


could  lielp  it  ;  but  love  him — no  !  "  Slie  clasped  her  hands 
above  lier  head,  and  gazed  dreamily  out  at  the  sparkling 
sunlit  scene.  "I  shall  be  very  fond  of  him,  very  proud  of 
him,  when  I  am  his  wife — that  I  know.  He  will  enter  Par- 
liament, and  make  sjieeches,  and  write  political  pamphlets, 
and  redress  the  wrongs  of  the  people.  He's  the  sort  of 
man  politicians  are  made  of — the  sort  of  man  a  wife  can  be 
proud  of.  And  on  my-wedding  day,  or  perhaps  a  day  or  two 
before,  you  and  I  shall  shake  hands,  sir,  and  see  each  other 
no  more." 

"  No  more  ?  "  he  repeats. 

"W'^U,  for  a  year  or  two  at  least,  until  all  the  folly  of  the 
pa;  "^  ca"  be  remembered  only  as  a  thing  to  be  laughed  at. 
Or  ui.til  there  is  a  tall,  handsonie  Mrs.  Stuart,  or,  more 
likely,  a  Lady  Gwendoline  Stuart.  And  Charley,"  speak- 
ing hurriedly  now,  and  not  meeting  the  deep  gray  eyes  she 
knows  are  fixed  upon  her,  "  the  locket  with  my  picture  and 
the  letters — you  won't  want  them  t/icti — suppose  you  let  me 
have  them  back." 

"I  won't  want  them  then,  certai.ily,"  Charley  responds, 
"  if  by  '  then  '  you  mean  when  I  am  the  husband  of  the  tall, 
fascinating  Mrs.  Stuart  or  Lady  Gwendoline.  But  as  I 
have  not  that  happiness  yet,  suppose  you  allow  me  to  retain 
them  until  I  have.  Sir  Victor  will  never  know,  and  he  would 
not  mind  much  if  he  did.  We  are  cousins,  are  we  not  ?  and 
what  more  natural  than  that  cousins  once  removed  should 
keep  each  other's  pictures  ?  IJy  the  bye,  1  see  you  still  wear 
that  little  trumpery  pearl  and  turquoise  brooch  1  gave  you, 
with  my  photo  at  the  back.  Give  it  to  me,  Kdie  ;  turquoise 
does  not  become  your  brown  skin,  my  dear,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  ruby  pin  with  Sir  Victor's  instead.  I'erhaps,  as  tur- 
quois  does  become  her,  Lady  Gwendoline  will  accept  this 
as  love's  first  timid  oflfering.  The  rubies  will  do  twice  as 
well  for  you." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  unfasten  it.  She  sprang 
back,  her  checks  flushing  at  his  touch. 

"  You  shall  not  have  it !  Neither  Lady  Gwendoline  nor 
any  one  else  shall  wear  it,  and,  married  or  single,  /shall  keep 
it  to  my  dying  day  if  1  choose.  Charley — what  do  you 
mean,  sir  !     How  dare  you  ?     Let  me  go  !  " 

For  he  had  risen  suddenly  and  caught  her  in  his  arms, 


7 


255 


"0  MY  COUSIX  SIIALLOlV-HEARTEDr 


looking  steadily  down  into  her  dark  eyes,  with  a  gaze  she 
could  not  meet.  Whilst  he  held  her,  whiist  he  looked  at 
her,  he  was  her  master,  and  he  knew  it. 

"  Charley,  let  me  go  !  "  she  ]ileaded.  "  If  any  one  came 
in  ;  the  servants,  or — or — Sir  Victor." 

He  laughed  conlemptnouslv.  and  held  her  still. 

"  Yes,  Edith  ;  suppose  Sir  Victor  came  in  and  saw  his  bride- 
elect  with  a  sacrilegious  arm  about  her  waist?  Su|)pose  1 
told  him  the  truth — that  you  are  mine,  not  his:  mine  by  tlie 
love  that  alone  makes  marriage  holy  ;  his  for  his  title  and 
his  rent-roll — bouglit  and  sold.  By  Heaven  !  I  half  wish  he 
would  ! " 

Was  this  Charley — Charley  Stuart  ? 

She  caught  her  breath — her  pride  and  her  insolence  drop- 
ping from  her— only  a  girl  in  the  grasp  of  the  man  she  loves. 
In  that  moment,  if  he  had  willed  it,  he  could  have  made  her 
forego  her  plight,  and  pledge  herself  to  be  his  wholly,  and  he 
knew  it. 

"Edith,"  he  said,  "as  I  stand  and  look  at  yo  i,  in  your 
beauty  and  your  seltishness,  1  hardly  know  whether  I  love  or 
despise  you  most.  I  could  make  yon  marry  me — make  you, 
mind — but  you  are  not  worth  it.  Go!"  He  opened  his 
arms  contemptuously  and  released  her.  "Vf)u'll  not  be  a 
bad  wife  for  Sir  Victor,  I  dare  say,  as  fashionable  wives  go. 
You'll  be  that  ornauient  of  society,  a  married  ilirt,  but  you'll 
never  run  away  with  his  dvarest  friend,  and  make  a  case  for 
the  D.  C.  '  All  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost,'  is  no 
motto  of  yours,  my  handsonie  cousin.  .\  week  ago  I  en- 
vied Sir  Victor  with  all  my  heart — to-day  1  pity  him  with  all 
my  soul  1  " 

He  turned  to  go,  for  once  in  his  life,  thoroughly  aroused, 
passionate  love,  passionate  rage  at  war  within  him.  She 
had  sunk  back  upon  the  soft,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands, 
humbled,  as  in  all  her  proud  life  she  iiad  never  been  hum- 
bled before.  Her  silence,  her  huniility  touched  him.  He 
heard  a  stifled  sob,  and  all  his  hot  anger  died  out  in  pained 
remorse. 

"Oh,  forgive  me,  Edith  !"  he  said,  "forgive  riie.  It  may 
be  cruel,  but  1  had  to  speak.  It  is  the  first,  it  will  be  the  last 
time.  I  am  selli>h,  too,  or  I  would  never  have  i)ained  you 
— better  never  hear  the  truth  than  that  the  hearing  should 


"FOREVER  AND  EVER:' 


257 


make  you  miserable.  Don't  cry,  Edith  ;  I  can't  bear  it.  For- 
give nio,  my  cousin — they  arc  the  last  tears  I  will  ever  make 
you  shed." 

The  words  he  meant  to  soothe  her,  hurt  more  deeply 
than  the  words  he  meant  to  wound.  "They  are  the  last 
tears  I  will  ever  make  you  shed  !  "  An  eternal  farewell  was 
in  the  words.  She  heard  the  door  open,  heanl  it  close,  and 
knew  that  her  love  and  her  lite  had  parted  in  that  instant 
forever. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


FOREVER    AND    EVER. 


WO  weeks  later,  as  Jime's  golden  days  were  draw- 
ing to  a  close,  t"ive  of  Eady  Helena's  guests  de- 
l)arted  from  I'owyss  I'lace.  One  remained  behind. 
The  Stuart  family,  with  the  devoted  Captain  Ham- 
mond in  Trixy's  train,  went  up  to  London  ;  Miss  Edith 
Darrell  stayed  behind. 

Since  the  memorable  day  following  the  ball,  the  bride- 
elect  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  dwelt  in  a  sort  of  earthly 
purgatory,  had  lived  stretched  on  a  sort  of  daily  rack. 
"  How  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  tliL^it."  She  had 
given  up  Charley — had  cast  him  otf,  h.  d  bartered  herself  in 
cold  blood — for  a  title  and  an  income.  as.\A  now  that  he 
held  her  at  her  true  value,  that  his  love  had  d-ed  a  natiuul 
death  in  contemi)t  and  scorn,  her  whcjle  heart,  hci  whole  soul 
craved  him  widi  a  sick  longing  that  was  like  de,  th.  It  was 
her  daily  torture  and  penance  to  see  him,  to  s[)eak  to  him, 
and  note  the  cold  scorn  of  his  gray,  tramiuil  eyes,  jealousy 
had  been  adiled  to  her  other  torments  ;  he  w.is  ever  by  Lady 
(iwendoline's  side  of  late — ever  at  Drexel  Court.  His 
father  had  set  his  heart  upon  the  match  ;  she  was  graeeiul 
and  high-bred  ;  it  would  end  in  a  marriage,  no  doubt.  There 
were  limes  when  she  woke  from  her  jealous  anger  to  rage  at 
herself. 

"  What  a  dog  in  the  manger  I  grow,"  she  s  iid,  with  a  bit- 


258 


''FOREVER  AND  EVER:* 


tor  laugh.  "  I  won't  have  him  myself,  and  I  cannot  bear 
that  any  one  else  should  have  him.  If  he  would  only  go 
away — if  he  only  would — I  cannot  endure  this  much 
longer." 

'I'ruly  she  could  not.  She  was  losing  flesh  and  color,  wax- 
ing wan  as  a  shadow.  Sir  Victor  was  full  of  concern,  full  of 
wonder  and  alarm.  Lady  Helena  said  little,  but  (being  a 
woman)  her  sharp  old  eyes  saw  all. 

"  The  sooner  my  guests  go,  the  better,"  she  thought ;  "  the 
sooner  she  sees  the  last  of  this  young  man,  the  sooner  health 
and  strength  will  return." 

Perhaps  Charley  saw  too — the  gray,  tranquil  eyes  were 
ver}'  penetrating.  It  was  he,  at  all  events,  who  urged  the 
exodus  to  London. 

"  Let  us  see  a  little  London  life  in  the  season,  governor," 
he  said.  ''  l,ady  Portia  Hampton,  and  thai  lot,  are  going. 
They'll  introduce  us  to  some  nice  people — so  will  Hammond. 
Rustic  lanes  and  hawthorn  ledges  are  all  very  jiretty,  but 
there's  a  possibility  of  their  palling  on  depraved  New  York 
minds.  1  pine  for  stone  and  mortar,  and  the  fog  and  smoke 
of  London." 

\Miatever  he  may  have  felt,  he  bore  it  easily  to  all  out- 
ward seeming,  as  the  men  who  feel  deepest  mostly  do. 
He  could  not  l)e  said  to  actually  avoid  her,  but  certainly  since 
that  afternoon  in  the  drawing-room,  they  had  never  been  for 
five  seconds  alone. 

Mr.  Stuart,  senior,  had  agreed,  with  almost  feverish  eager- 
ness, to  the  proposed  change.  Life  had  been  very  pleasant 
in  Cheshire,  with  picnics,  water-parties  down  the  Dee,  drives 
to  show-places,  lawn  billiards,  and  croquet,  but  a  month 
of  it  was  enough.  Sir  Victor  was  immeised  in  his  building 
projects  and  his  lady-love  ;  Lady  Helena,  ever  since  the 
coming  and  going  of  the  lady  in  bla(  .  had  not  been  the 
same.  Powyss  phice  was  a  pleasant  house,  but  enough  was 
enough.  'J'lujy  were  ready  to  say  goodby  and  be  off  to 
"fresh  fields  and  pastures  new." 

"And,  my  dear  child,"  said  Lady  Helena  to  Edith,  when 
the  de|)arture  was  fixed,  "  I  think  )ou  had  much  better  re- 
main behind." 

There  was  an  emphasis  in  her  tone,  a  meaning  glance  in 
her  eye,  that  brought  the  conscious  blood  to  the  girl's  check. 


''FOREVER  AND  EVER."" 


259 


;ant 

ivcs 

mill 

ling 

the 

the 

was 

ff  to 


Her  eyes  fell — her  lips  quivered  for  an  instant — she  made 
no  re])]}'. 

"  Certainly  Kdith  will  remain,"  Sir  Victor  interposed  im- 
petuously. "  As  if  we  couul  survive  down  here  without 
her !  And,  of  course,  just  ai  present  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  leave.  I'hey  don't  need  her  half  as  much  as  we  do — 
Miss  Stuart  has  Hannnond,  Prince  Charley  has  Gwendoline 
Drexel  ;  Edith  would  only  be  in  the  way !  " 

"  It  is  settled,  then  ?"  said  Lady  Ihdena  again,  watching 
Edith  with  a  curiously  intent  look.     "  Vou  remain  ?  " 

'■  1  will  remain,''  Edith  answered,  very  lowly  and  without 
lifting  her  eyes. 

"  My  own  idea  is,"  went  on  the  young  baronet  confiden- 
tially, to  his  lady  love,  "  that  they  are  glad  to  be  gone. 
Something  seems  to  be  the  matter  with  Stuart  pcrc — under 
a  cloud,  rather,  just  at  present.     Has  it  struck  you,  Dithy  ?  " 

He  had  caught  the  way  of  calling  her  by  the  jv't  name 
Trix  and  Charley  used.  She  lifted  her  eyes  abstractedly 
now,  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"Mr.  Stuart?  What  did  you  say,  Sir  Victor?  Oh — un- 
der a  cloud.  Well,  yes,  1  have  noticed  it.  1  think  it  is 
something  connected  with  his  business  in  New  York.  In 
papa's  last  letter  he  alluded  to  it." 

"In  [)apa's  last  letter,"  Mr.  Frederick  Darrell  had  said 
this  : 

"One  of  their  great  financial  crises,  they  tell  me,  is  ap- 
proaching in  New  York,  involving  many  tailures  and  im- 
mense loss.  One  of  the  most  dee|)ly  involved,  it  is  whispered, 
will  be  James  Stuart.  1  hare  heard  he  is  threatened  with 
ruin.  Let  us  ho[)e,  however,  this  maybe  exaggerateil.  Once 
I  fancied  it  would  be  a  fine  thing,  a  brilliant  match,  if  my 
Edith  married  James  Stuart's  son.  How  nnich  better  Provi- 
dence has  arranged  it !  Once  more,  my  dearest  dauglUei,  I 
congratulate  you  on  the  brilliant  vista  opening  before  you. 
Your  step-mother,  who  desires  her  best  love,  never  wearies 
of  sineadmg  the  wonderfid  news  that  our  little  Edie  is  so 
soon  to  be  the  bride  of  a  great  English  baronet." 

Miss  Darrell's  straight  black  brows  met  in  one  frowning 
line  as  she  jjerused  this  parental  ami  pious  e[)istle.  The 
next  instant  it  was  torn  into  minute  atoms,  and  scattered  to 
the  four  winds  of  heaven. 


26o 


*' FOREVER  AND  EVER:' 


There  seemed  to  be  some  foundation  for  the  news.  Let- 
ters wiihout  end  kept  coming  for  Mr.  Sinart;  little  boys 
bearing  the  ominous  orange  envelopes  of  the  telegrapli 
company,  came  almost  daily  to  Powv-ss  Place.  After  these 
letters  and  cable  messages  the  gloom  on  Mr.  Stuart's  fice 
deepened  and  darkened.  He  lost  sleep,  he  lost  api)etitc ; 
some  great  and  secret  fear  seemed  preying  upon  him.  -  \Vhat 
was  it  ?  His  family  noticed  it,  and  inquired  about  his 
health.  He  rebuffed  them  impatiently  ;  he  was  quite  well 
— he  wanted  to  be  let  alone — why  the  unmentionable-to- 
ears-polite  need  they  Ladger  him  with  questions  ?  They  held 
their  i)cace  and  let  him  alone.  That  it  in  any  way  con- 
cerned commercial  fiilure  they  never  dreamed  ;  to  them  the 
wealth  of  the  husband  and  filher  was  something  illimitable 
— a  golden  river  flowing  from  a  golden  ocean.  That  ruin 
could  approach  them  never  entered  their  wildest  dreams. 

He  had  gone  to  Edith  one  day  and  offered  her  a  thou- 
sand-dollar check. 

"  For  your  trousseau,  my  dear,"  he  had  said.  "  It  isn't 
what  I  cxi)ected  to  give  you — what  I  would  give  you,  if — " 
He  gulped  and  paused.  "Things  have  changed  with  me 
lately.  You  will  accept  this,  Edie — it  will  at  least  buy  your 
wedding-dress." 

She  had  shrunk  back,  and  refused — not  ]iroudly,  or  an- 
grily— very  humbly,  but  very  firmly.  From  Charley's  father 
she  could  never  take  a  farthing  now. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  can't  take  it.  Dear  Mr.  Stuart,  I 
thank  you  all  the  same  ;  you  have  given  nie  more  already 
than  I  deserve  or  can  ever  rcjiay.  1  cannot  take  this.  Sir 
Victor  Catheron  takes  me  as  I  am — poor,  i)enniless.  Lady 
Helena  will  give  me  a  white  silk  dress  and  veil  to  be  mar- 
ried in.  For  the  rest,  after  my  wedding-day,  whatever  my 
life  may  lack,  it  will  not  lack  dresses." 

He  had  replaced  the  check  in  his  jiocket-book,  inwardly 
thankful,  perhaps,  that  it  had  not  been  accepted.  The  day 
was  past  when  a  thousand  dollars  would  have  been  but  as  a 
drop  in  the  ocean  to  him. 

'I'he  tin)e  of  departure  was  fixed  at  length  ;  and  the  mo- 
ment it  was  fixed,  Trix  flew  upstairs,  and  into  Edith's 
room,  with  the  news. 

"  Oh,  let   us  be  joyful,"    sang   Miss  Stuart,  waltzing  in 


''FOREVER  AND  EVER." 


261 


psalm  time  up  and  down  the  room  ;  "  we're  oflf  at  last,  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  Dithy  ;  so  go  pack  up  at  once.  It's 
been  very  jolly,  and  all  that,  down  here,  for  the  past  f(nir 
weeks,  and  j'<?//7r  had  a  good  time,  1  know  ;  butl,  for  one, 
will  be  glad  to  hear  li;e  bustle  and  din  of  city  life  once  more. 
One  grows  tired  doing  the  pastoral  and  tooral-ooral — I  mean 
truly  rural — and  craves  for  shops,  and  gaslight,  and  glitter, 
and  crowds  of  human  beings  once  mote.  Our  rooms  are 
taken  at  Langham's,  Edie,  and  that  blessed  darling,  Captain 
Hammond,  goes  with  us.  Lady  Portia,  l^ady  (]wendoline, 
and  Lady  Laura  are  coming  also,  and  1  mean  to  plunge 
headlong  into  the  giddy  whirl  of  dissi[)ation,  and  mingle  with 
the  bloated  aristocracy.  Why  don't  you  laugh  ?  What  are 
you  looking  so  sulky  about  ?  " 

"Am  I  looking  sulky?"  Edith  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  I  don't  feel  sulky.  I  sincerely  hope  you  may  enjoy  your- 
self even  more  than  you  anticipate." 

"  Oh — you  do  !  "  said  Trix,  opening  her  eyes  ;  "  and  how 
about  yourself — don't  you  expect  to  enjoy  yourself  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  would,  no  doubt,  only — I  am  not  going." 

"  Not  going  !  "     Thunderstruck,  Trix  repeats  the  words. 

"  No  ;  it  has  been  decided  that  I  remain  here.  You  won't 
r.  iss  me,  Trix — you  will  have  Cai)tain  Hammond." 

"Captain  Hammond  may  go  hang  himself.  I  want  you, 
and  you  I  mean  to  have.  Let's  sit  down  and  reason  this 
thing  out.  Now  what  new  crotchet  has  got  into  your  head  ? 
May  1  ask  what  your  latlyship-elect  means  to  do  ?  " 

"To  remain  quietly  here  until — until — you  know." 

"Oh,  I  know  !  "  with  indescribable  scorn  ;  "  until  you  are 
raised  to  the  sublime  dignity  of  a  baronet's  wife.  And  you 
mean  to  mope  away  your  existence  down  here  for  the  next 
two  uionths  listening  to  love-making  you  don't  care  thai 
about.  Oh,  no  need  to  fire  up ;  I  know  how  much  you 
care  about  it.  And  I  say  you  shan't.  Why,  you  are  fading 
away  to  a  shadow  now  under  it.  You  shall  come  up  to 
London  with  us  and  recuperate.  Charley  shall  take  you 
everywhere." 

She  saw  her  wince — yes,  that  was  where  the  vital  place 
lay.     Miss  Stuart  ran  on  : 

"The  idea  of  living  under  the  same  roof  for  two  mortal 
months    wilii    the    young    man    you    are   going   to    marry ! 


262 


''FOREVER   AND  EVER." 


You're  a  great  stickler  for  etiquette — I  hope  you  don't  call 
that  etiquette  ?  Nobody  ever  heard  of  sucli  a  thing.  I'm 
not  sure  hut  tliat  it  would  be  immoral.  Of  course,  there's 
Lady  Helena  to  play  propriety,  and  there's  the  improve- 
ments at  Catheron  Royals  to  amuse  you,  and  there's  Sir 
Victor's  endless  'lovering'  to  edify  you,  but  still  1  say  you 
shall  come.  You  started  with  us,  and  you  shall  stay  with  us 
— you  belong  to  us,  not  to  him,  until  the  nuptial  knot  is 
tied.  I  wouldn't  give  a  lig  for  London  without  you.  I 
should  die  of  the  dismals  in  a  week." 

"What,  Trix — with  Captain  Hammond?" 

*'  Bother  Captain  Hammond  !  I  want  you.  O  Edie,  do 
come ! " 

"  I  can't,  Trix."  She  turned  away  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
"  I  have  promised.  Sir  Victor  wishes  it.  Lady  Helena 
wishes  it.     It  is  impossible." 

"And  Edith  Darrell  wishes  it.  Oh,  say  it  out,  Edith," 
Trix  retorted  bitterly.  "  Your  faults  are  many,  but  fear  of  the 
truth  used  not  to  be  among  them.  You  have  promised.  Is 
it  that  they  are  afraid  to  trust  you  out  of  their  sight?" 

"  Let  me  alone,  Trix.  I  am  tired  and  sick — ^I  can't  bear 
it." 

She  laid  her  face  down  upon  her  arm — tired,  as  she  said-  - 
sick,  soul  and  body.  Every  fibre  of  her  heart  was  longing 
to  go  with  them — to  be  with  him  while  she  might,  treason  or 
no  to  Sir  Victor ;  but  it  could  not  be. 

Trix  stood  and  looked  at  her,  pale  with  anger. 

"  I  will  let  you  alone.  Miss  Darrell.  More — I  will  let  you 
alone  for  the  remainder  of  your  life.  All  the  past  has  been 
bad  enough.  Your  deceit  to  me,  your  heavtlessness  to 
Charley — this  is  the  last  drop  in  the  cup.  You  throw  us 
over  when  we  have  served  your  turn  for  newer,  grander 
friends — it  is  only  the  way  of  the  world,  and  what  one  might 
expect  from  Miss  Edith  Darrell.  But  I  didn't  expect  it — I 
didn't  think  ingratitude  was  one  among  your  failings.  I  was 
a  fool  I "  cried  Trix,  with  a  burst.  "  I  always  was  a  fool  and 
always  will  be.  But  I'll  be  fooled  by  you  no  longer.  Stay 
here,  Miss  Darrell,  and  when  we  say  good-by  day  after  to- 
morrow, it  shall  be  good-by  forever." 

And  then  Miss  Stuart,  very  red  in  the  face,  very  flashing 


*' FOREVER  AND  EVER." 


263 


in  the  eyes,  bounced  out  of  the  room,  and  Edith  was  left 
alone. 

Only  another  friend  lost  forever.  Well,  she  had  Sir  Victor 
Cathcron  left — he  must  suffice  for  all  now. 

All  that  (lay  and  most  of  the  next  she  kept  her  room.  It 
was  no  falsehood  to  say  she  was  ill — she  was.  She  lay  upon 
her  bed,  her  dark  eyes  open,  her  hands  clasped  over  her 
head,  looking  blankly  before  her.  To-morrow  they  must 
part,  and  after  to-morrow — but  her  mind  gave  it  up ;  she 
could  not  look  b'^yond. 

She  came  downstairs  when  to-morrow  came  to  say  fare- 
well. The  white  wrapper  she  wore  was  not  whiter  than  her 
face.  Mr.  Stuart  shook  hands  in  a  nervous,  hurried  sort 
of  way  that  had  grown  iiabitual  to  him  of  late.  Mrs.  Stuart 
kissed  her  fondly,  Miss  Stuart  just  touched  her  lii)s  formally 
to  her  cheek,  and  Mr.  Charles  Stuart  held  her  cold  fmgers 
for  two  seconds  in  his  warm  clasp,  looked,  with  his  own  easy, 
pleasant  smile,  straight  into  her  eyes,  and  said  good-by  pre- 
cisely as  he  said  it  to  Lady  Helena.  Then  it  was  all  over ; 
they  were  gone  ;  the  wheels  that  bore  them  away  crashed 
over  the  gravel.  Edith  Darrell  felt  as  though  they  were 
crashing  over  her  heart. 

That  night  the  Stuarts  were  established  in  elegant  apart- 
ments at  Langham's  Hotel. 

But  alas  for  the  frailty  of  hum  ,n  hopes  !  "  The  splendid 
time "  Trixy  so  confidently  looked  forward  to  never  came. 
The  very  morning  after  their  arrival  came  one  of  the  boys  in 
uniform  with  another  sinister  orange  envelope  for  the  head 
of  the  family.  The  head  of  the  family  chanced  to  be  alone 
in  his  dressing-room.  He  took  it  with  trembling  hand  and 
bloodshot  eyes,  and  tore  it  oi)en.  A  moment  after  there  was 
a  horrible  cry  like  nothing  human,  then  a  heavy  fall.  Mrs. 
Stuart  rushed  in  with  a  scream,  and  found  her  husband  lying 
on  the  floor,  the  message  in  his  hand,  in  a  fit. 

^fi  "JC  S|s  5(1  ^fi  »i»  •(•  *!•  Sp  5|C 

Captain  Hammond  had  made  an  appointment  with  Char- 
ley to  dine  at  St.  James  Street  that  evening.  Calling  upon 
old  friends  kept  the  gallant  captain  of  Scotch  Grays  occupied 
all  day  ;  and  as  the  shades  of  evening  began  to  gather  over 
the  VVest  End,  he  stood  impatiently  awaiting  his  arrival. 
Mr.  Stuart  was  ten  minutes  late,  and  if  there  was  one  thing 


264 


"FOREVER  AND  EVER." 


in  this  mortal  life  that  upset  the  young  warrior's  equanimity, 
it  was  being  ke])t  ten  minutes  waiting  for  his  dinner.  Five 
minutes  more  !  Confound  the  fellow — would  he  never 
come  ?  As  the  impatient  adjuration  i)assed  the  captain's 
lips,  Charley  came  in.  lie  was  rather  pale.  Except  for  that, 
there  was  no  change  in  him.  Death  itself  could  hardly  have 
wrought  much  chansre  in  Charlev.  He  had  not  come  to 
apologize  ;  he  had  not  come  to  dine.  He  had  come  to  tell 
the  captain  some  very  bad  news.  There  had  been  terrible 
commercial  disasters  of  late  in  New  York  ;  they  had  involved 
his  father.  His  father  had  embarked  almost  every  dollar  of 
his  fortune  in  some  bubble  speculations  that  had  gone  up 
like  a  rocket  and  come  down  like  a  stick.  He  had  been 
losing  immensely  for  the  i)ast  month.  This  morning  he 
had  received  a  cable  message,  telling  him  the  crash  had 
come.  He  was  irretrievably,  past  all  hope  of  redemption, 
ruined. 

All  this  Charley  told  in  his  quietest  voice,  looking  out 
through  the  great  bay  window  at  the  bustle  and  whirl  of 
fashionable  London  life,  at  the  hour  of  seven  in  the  evening. 
Captain  Hammond,  smoking  a  cigar,  hstened  in  gloomy  si- 
lence, feeling  particularly  uncomfortable,  and  not  knowing 
in  the  least  what  to  say.  He  took  out  his  cheroot  and  spoke 
at  last.  ■ 

"It's  a  deuced  bad  state  of  affairs,  Charley.  Have  you 
thought  of  anything  ?  " 

"I've  thought  of  suicide,"  Charley  answered,  "and  made 
all  the  preliminary  arrangements.  I  took  out  my  razor- 
case,  examined  the  edges,  found  the  sharpest,  and — put  it 
carefully  away  again.  I  loaded  all  the  chambers  of  my  re- 
volver, and  locked  it  up.  I  sauntered  by  the  classic  banks 
of  the  Serpentine,  sleeping  tranquilly  in  the  rays  of  the  sun- 
set (that  sounds  like  poetry,  but  I  don't  mean  poetry). 
Of  the  three  I  think  I  prefer  it,  and  if  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst,  it's  there  still,  and  it's  pleasant  and  cool." 

"How  do  your  mother  and  sister  take  it?"  Captain 
Hammond  gloomily  asked. 

"  My  mother  is  one  of  those  happy-go-lucky,  apathetic 
sort  of  people  who  never  break  their  hearts  over  anything. 
She  said  'O  dear  nie!'  several  times,  I  believe,  and  cried 
a  little.     Trix  hasn't  time  to  'take  it'  at  all.     She  is  ab- 


her 

Victcl 

will 


"FOREVER  AND  EVER." 


265 


si- 


ham 


ketic 

[ing. 

Iried 

ab- 


sorbed all  day  in  attending  her  f.itlier.     The  fit  turns  out 
not  to  be  dangerous  at  present,  but  he  lies  in  a  sort  of  stu- 

can  rouse    hiin.     Of 


por, 


a   letharuv  from    wliicli 


notlnng 


course  our  first  step  will  be  to  return  to  Xew  York  immedi- 
ately. Beggars — and  I  take  it  that's  about  what  we  are  at 
present — have  no  business  at  Langham's." 

Captain  llamniond  opened  his  bearded  li|)s  as  though  to 
speak,  thouglit  better  of  it,  replaced  his  cigar  again  be- 
tween tlieni  in  nioody  silence,  and  stared  hard  at  nothing 
out  of  the  window. 

"  I  called  this  afternoon  upon  the  London  agent  of  the 
Cunard  ships,"  resumed  Charley,  "and  found  that  one 
sails  in  four  days.  Providentially  two  cabins  remained 
im taken  ;  I  secured  them  at  once.  In  four  days,  then,  we 
sail.  Meantime,  old  fellow,  if  you'll  drop  in  and  speak  a 
word  to  mother  and  Trix,  you  will  be  doing  a  friendly  deed. 
Poor  souls  !  they  are  awfully  cut  up." 

Captain  Hammond  started  to  his  feet.  He  seized  Char- 
ley's hand  in  a  grip  of  iron.  "Old  boy!"  he  began — he 
never  got  further.  The  torrent  of  eloquence  dried  up  sud- 
denly, and  a  shake  of  the  hand  that  made  Charley  wince 
finished  the  sentence. 

"  1  shall  be  fully  occupied  in  the  meantime,"  Charley 
said,  taking  his  hat  and  turning  to  go,  "  and  they'll  be  a 
great  deal  alone.  If  I  can  find  time  PU  run  down  to 
Cheshire,  and  tell  my  cousin.  As  we  may  not  meet  again, 
I  should  like  to  say  'good-by.'  "     He  dejiarted. 

There  was  no  sleep  that  night  in  the  Stuart  apartments. 
Mr.  Stuart  was  pronounced  out  of  danger  and  able  to 
travel,  but  he  still  lay  in  that  lethargic  trance — not  speak- 
ing at  all,  and  seemingly  not  suflfering.  Next  day  Charley 
started  for  Cheshire. 

"  She  doesn't  deserve  it,"  his  sister  said  bitterly ;  *'  I 
wouldn't  go  if  I  were  you.  She  has  her  lover — her  fortune. 
\Vhat  are  we  or  our  misfortunes  to  her?  She  has  neither 
heart,  nor  gratitude,  nor  affection.  She  isn't  worth  a 
thought,  and  never  was — there  !  " 

"  1  wouldn't  be  too  hard  upon  her,  Trix,  if  I  were  you," 
her  brother  answered  coolly.  "  You  would  have  taken  Sir 
Victor  yourself,  you  know,  if  you  could  have  got  him.  I 
will  go." 

13  • 


266 


"FOREVER  AND  .EVER.'* 


He  went.  The  long,  bright  summer  day  passed  ;  at  six 
he  was  ill  Chester.  Tlicrc  was  some  delay  in  procuring  a 
conveyance  to  I'owyss  I'lace,  and  tlie  drive  was  a  lengthy 
one.  Twilight  had  entirely  fallen,  and  lanii)s  glimmered 
in  the  windows  of  the  old  stone  mansion  as  he  ahglited. 

The  servant  stared,  as  he  ushered  him  in,  at  his  pale  face 
and  dusty  garments. 

"  You  will  tell  Miss  Darrell  I  wish  to  '^  •  her  at  once, 
and  alone,"  he  said,  slipping  a  shilling  .  .10  the  man's 
hand. 

He  took  a  seat  in  the  familiar  reception-room,  and  waited. 
Woidd  she  keep  liim  long,  he  wondered — would  she  come 
to  him — ZiW/A/ she  come  at  all.-*  Yes,  he  knew  she  would, 
let  him  send  for  her,  married  or  single,  when  and  how  he 
might,  he  knew  she  would  come. 

She  entered  as  the  thought  crossed  his  mind,  hastily, 
with  a  soft  silken  rustle,  a  waft  of  perfume.  He  rose  up 
and  looked  at  her ;  so  for  the  space  of  live  seconds  they 
stood  silently,  face  to  face. 

To  the  last  hour  of  his  life  Ciiarlcy  Stuart  remembered 
her,  as  he  saw  her  then,  and  always  with  a  sharp  pang  of 
the  same  pain. 

She  was  dressed  for  a  dinner  party.  Slie  wore  violet 
silk,  trailing  ixx  behind  her,  violet  shot  with  red.  Her 
graceful  shoulders  rose  up  excpiisitely  out  of  the  p<;int  lace 
trimmings,  her  arms  sparkled  in  the  lights.  A  necklace  of 
amethysts  set  in  clusters,  with  diamonds  between,  shone 
upon  her  neck  ;  amethysts  and  diamonds  were  in  her  ears, 
and  clasping  the  arms  above  the  elbows.  Her  waving, 
dark  hair  was  drawn  l>ack  off  her  face,  and  crowned  with 
an  ivy  wreath.  The  soft,  abundant  wax  lights  showered 
down  upon  her.  So  she  stood,  resplendent  as  a  queen, 
radiant  as  a  goddess.  There  was  a  look  on  Charley  Stuart's 
face,  a  light  in  his  gray  eyes,  very  rare  to  see.  He  only 
bowed  and  stood  aloof. 

"  I  have  surprised  you,  I  am  sure — interrupted  you,  I 
greatly  fear.  You  will  pardon  both  1  know,  when  i  tell  you 
wluit  has  brought  me  here." 

\\\  very  few  words  he  told  her — the  great  tragedies  of 
life  are  always  easily  told.  They  were  ruined — he  had 
engaged  their  passage  by  the  next  steamer — he  had  merely 


lacl 

her 

Ceil 

be; 

kin  I 

woil 

thof 

real! 
Sl 

shef 

passl 


"■* FOREVER  AND  EVER." 


267 


of 


rOU,    I 
:U  you 

lllcs  of 
le  IiaJ 
Incrcly 


run  down  as  they  were  never  likely  tp  meet  again — for  the 
sake  of  old  times,  to.  say  good-by. 

Old  times !  Something  rose  in  the  girl's  throat,  and 
seemed  to  choke  her.  Oh,  of  all  the  i),iso,  heartless,  mer- 
cenary, ungrateful  wretches  on  earth,  was  there  another  so 
heartless,  so  ungrateful  as  she  !  Poor — Charley  i)oor  !  For 
one  moment — one — the  impulse  came  upon  her  to  give  up 
all — to  go  with  iiim  to  brggary  if  need  be.  Only  tor  one 
moment — I  will  do  Miss  Darrell's  excellent  worldly  wisdom 
this  justice — only  one. 

"  I  see  you  are  dressed  for  a  party — I  will  not  detain  you 
a  second  longer.  I  could  not  depart  comfortably,  consider- 
ing that  you  came  over  in  our  care,  without  informing  you 
why  we  leave  so  abruptly.  You  are  safe.  Your  destiny  is 
happily  settled.  I  can  give  to  your  father  a  good  account 
of  my  stewardship.  You  have  my  sincerest  wishes  for  your 
health  and  happiness,  and  1  am  sure  you  will  never  (iiiite 
forget  us.  Good-by,  Miss  Darrell."  He  held  out  his  hand. 
"  My  congratulations  are  i)remature,  but  let  me  offer  them 
now  to  the  future  Lady  Catheron." 

"Miss  Darrell !"  When,  in  all  the  years  that  were  gone, 
had  he  ever  called  her  that  before  ?  She  arose  and  gave 
him  her  hand — j^roud,  pale. 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  said  coldly.  "  I  will  send  Lady 
Helena  and  Sir  Victor  to  you  at  once.  They  will  wish  to 
see  you,  of  course.  Good-by,  Mr.  Stuart.  Let  us  hope 
things  may  turn  out  better  than  you  think.  Give  my  dear- 
est love  to  Trix,  if  she  will  accept  it.     Once  more,  good- 

She  swept  to  the  door  in  her  brilliant  dress,  her  i^erfunied 
laces,  her  shining  jewels — the  glittering  fripperies  for  which 
her  womanhood  was  to  be  sold.  He  stood  quite  still  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  as  she  had  left  him,  watching  her.  So 
beautiful,  so  cold-blooded,  he  was  thinking  ;  were  all  her 
kind  like  this  ?  And  poets  sing  and  novelists  rave  of 
woman's  love !  A  half  smile  came  over  his  lijjs  as  he 
thought  of  it.  It  was  very  pretty  to  read  of  in  books ;  in 
real  life  it  was — like  this  ! 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  silver  handle  of  the  door — then 
she  paused — looked  back,  all  the  womanliness,  all  tlie 
passion  of  her  life  stirred  to  its  depths.     It  was  good-by 


268 


THE  SUMMOI^S. 


forever  to  Charley.  There  was  a  great  sob,  and  pride 
bowed  and  fell.  She  rushed  b.ick — two  im[)ctiioiis  arms 
went  round  his  neck  ;  she  drew  his  face  down,  and  kissed 
him  passionately — once — twice. 

"  Good-by,  Charley — my  darling — forever  and  ever !  " 
She    threw    him  from    her  almost  violently,  and    rushed 
out  of  the  room.     Whether  she  went  to  tell  Lady  Helena 
and  Sir  Victor  of  his  i)resen(;e  he  neither  knew  nor  cared. 
He  was  in  little  mood  to  meet  either  of  them  just  then. 

Five  minutes  later,  and,  under  the  blue  silvery  summer 
night,  he  was  whirling  away  back  to  Chester.  When  the 
midnight  stars  shone  in  the  sky  he  was  half  way  up  to  Lon- 
don, with  Edith's  farewell  words  in  his  ears,  Edith's  first, 
last  kiss  on  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  XVHL 


THE    SUMMONS. 


HE  sun  was  just  rising  over  the  million  roofs  and 
spires  of  the  great  city,  as  Charley's  hansom  dashed 
np  to  the  door  of  Langham's  hotel.  He  ran  up  to 
his  father's  room,  and  on  the  threshold  encountered 
Trix,  pale  and  worn  with  her  night's  watc;Iiing,  l)ut  wearing 
a  peculiarly  happy  and  contented  little  look  despite  it  all. 
Charley  did  not  stop  to  notice  the  look,  he  asked  after  his 
father. 

"Pa's  asleep,"  Trix  replied,  "so's  ma.  It's  of  no  use 
your  disturbing  either  of  them.  Pa's  pretty  well ;  §tupid 
as  you  left  him ;  doesn't  care  to  talk,  but  able  to  cat 
and  sleep.  The  doctor  says  there  is  nothing  at  all  to  hinder 
his  travelling  to  Liverpool  to-day.  And  now,  Ciiarley," 
Trix  concluded,  looking  comi)assionately  at  her  brother's 
pale,  tired  face,  "as  you  look  used  up  after  your  day  and 
night's  travelling,  supi)ose  you  go  to  bed  ;  I'll  wake  you  in 
time  for  breakfast,  and  yon  needn't  worry  about  anything. 
Captain  Hammond  has  been  here,"  says  Trix,  blushing  in 
the  wan,  morning  light,  "and  he  will  attend  to  every- 
thing." 


Edl 

thai 

SI  ail 

.«|)e[ 

Siicl 

rooj 

as 


THE  SUMMONS. 


269 


use 
[tu\Mtl 
cat 
finder 

|r\cy," 
>ihor's 
Ly  antl 
,'ou  iu 
fthing. 
juvj;  in 
kvciy- 


Charlcy  nodded  and  turned  to  go,  but  his  sister  detained 
hiiu. 

*'  You — you  saw  her,  I  sui)[)ose  ? "  she  said  hesita- 
tingly. 

"  iuHth  do  you  mean  ?  "  Charley  looks  at  her  full.  "  Yes, 
I  saw  her.  As  1  went  down  for  the  purpose,  I  was  hardly 
likely  to  fail." 

"And  what  has  she  to  say  for  herself?"  Trix  asks  bit- 
terly. 

'♦  Very  little  ;  we  were  not  together  ten  minutes  in  all. 
She  was  dressed  for  a  [larty  of  some  kind,  and  1  did  not  de- 
tain her." 

"A  [)arty?"  Trix.  repeats  ;  "  and  we  like  this  !  Did  she 
send  no  message  at  all?" 

"  Slie  sent  you  her  dearest  love." 

"  She  may  keep  it — let  her  give  it  to  Sir  Victor  Catheron. 
I  don't  want  her  love,  or  anytliing  else  belonging  to  her!  " 
Trix  cries,  explosively.  "  Of  all  the  heartless,  ungrateful 
girls-" 

Her  brother  stops  her  willi  a  look.  Those  handsome 
gray  eyes  of  Charley's  can  be  very  stern  eyes  when  he 
hkes. 

"  As  I  said  before,  that  will  do,  Trix.  Edith  is  one  of 
the  wise  virgins  we  read  of — she  has  chosen  by  long  odds 
the  better  part.  What  could  we  do  with  her  now?  take 
her  back  and  return  her  to  her  father  and  step-mother,  and 
the  dull  life  she  hated?  As  for  gratitude,  1  confess  I  don't 
see  where  the  gratitude  is  to  come  in.  We  engaged  her  at 
a  fixed  salary  :  so  mucli  cleverness,  French,  German,  and 
general  usefulness  o\\  her  part ;  on  ours,  so  many  hundred 
dollars  per  annum.  Let  me  say  this,  Trix,  once  and  for 
good  :  as  you  don't  seem  able  to  say  anything  pleasant  of 
Edith,  suppose  you  don't  speak  of  her  at  all?" 

And  then  Charley,  with  tiiat  resolute  light  in  his  eyes, 
that  resolute  compression  of  his  lips,  turned  and  walked  up- 
stairs. It  was  an  unusually  lengthy,  aud  unusually  grave 
gl)eech  for  him,  and  his  volatile  sister  was  duly  impressed. 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  went  back  to  her  pa's 
room. 

"  The  amount  of  it  is,"  she  thought,  "  he  is  as  fond  of  her 
as  ever,  and  can't  bear,  as  he  has  lost  her,  to  hear  her 


270 


THE  SUMMONS. 


spoken  of.     The  idea  of  his  scampering  down  into  Chester 


Ridi 


culous 


She  is  lieartless,  and 


to  see  \yc\  once  more  ! 
I  hate  her  !  " 

And  then  Trixy  took  out  her  lace  pocket-handkercliief, 
and  suddenl)'  burst  out  crying.  O  dear,  it  was  bad  enough 
to  lose  one's  fortune,  to  iiave  one's  Euro|jean  tour  nipped 
in  tlie  bud,  without  losing  Kdith.  just  as  Edith  had  wound 
her  way  most  closely  round  Trixy's  warm  little  heart.  Tiiere 
was  but  one  drop  of  honey  in  all  the  bitter  cup — a  drop 
six  feet  high  and  stout  in  proportion — Cajitain  Angus  Ihun- 
niond, 

I'or  Captain  Angus  Hammond,  as  though  to  ])rove  that 
all  the  world  was  not  base  and  mercenary,  had  come  nobly 
to  the  front,  and  proposed  to  Trixy.  And  Tiixy,  surprised 
and  grateful,  and  liking  him  very  much,  Iiad  hesitatecl,  and 
smiled,  and  dimpled,  and  blushed,  and  objc-ctcd,  and  fin- 
ally begun  to  cry,  and  sobbed  oat  "yes"  through  her 
tears. 

Charley  slept  until  twelve — they  were  to  depart  for  Liv- 
eri)ool  by  the  two  o'clock  exjiress.  Then  his  sister,  attired 
for  travelling,  awoke  him,  and  they  all  breakfasted  together  ; 
J\lr.  Stuart,  too,  looking  very  li;np  and  miserable,  and  Cap- 
tain Hammond,  whose  slate  would  have  been  one  of  idiotic 
hapi)iness,  had  not  the  thought  that  the  ocean  to-mi>rrow 
would  roll  between  him  and  the  obji^ct  of  his  young  atTec- 
tions,  thrown  a  damper  \\\)c\\  him.  He  was  going  to  Liv- 
erpool with  them,  however  ;  it  would  be  a  mournful  conso- 
lation to  see  them  off.  They  travelled  second-class.  As 
Chai ley  said,  "they  must  let  themselves  down  easily — the 
sooner  they  began  the  better — and  third-class  to  start  with 
might  be  coming  it  a  little  too  strong.  Let  them  have  a 
few  cushions  and  comforts  still." 

Mr.  Stuart  kept  close  to  his  wife.  He  seemed  to  cling 
to  her,  and  dep'-nd  upon  her.  like  a  child,  it  was  wonder- 
ful, it  was  pitiful  how  utterly  shattered  he  had  become. 
His  son  looked  after  him  widi  a  solicitous  tenderness  quite 
new  in  all  their  experience  of  Charley.  Ca|)tain  Hammv)nd 
and  'I'rixy  kept  in  a  corner  togedier,  and  talked  in  sacchar- 
ine undertones,  looking  foolir^li,  and  guilty,  and  ha|)py. 

Tliey  reached  Liverpool  late  in  t!ie  evening,  and  drove 
to  the  Adeli)hi.     At  twelve  next  day  they  were  to  get  on 


I 


th< 


M 

wii 
hi. 
'J'i 
Ch 


[ 


THE  SUMMONS. 


271 


board   the  tender,  and  be  conveyed  down  the   Mersey  to 
their  ship. 

Lale  ihat  evening,  after  dinner,  and  over  their  cigars, 
Cai)tain  Hammond  opened  Iiis  niascnUnu  iieart,  and,  with 
vast  hesitation  and  nuich  embarrassment,  poured  into  Char- 
ley's ear  the  tale  of  his  love. 

"  I  ought  to  lell  the  governor,  you  know,"  the  young 
officer  said,  "  but  he's  so  deucedly  ciit  up  as  it  is,  you  know, 
that  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  And  it's  no  use  fidgeting  your 
mother — Trixy  will  tell  her.  I  love  your  sister,  Charley, 
and  1  believe  I've  been  in  love  with  iier  ever  since  that  day 
in  Ireland.  1  ain't  a  lady's  man,  and  I  never  cared  a  fig 
t'or  a  girl  before  in  my  life  ;  but,  by  Ceorge  !  I'm  awfully 
fond  of  Trixy.  I  ain't  an  elder  son,  and  I  ain't  clever,  I 
know,"  cried  the  poor,  young  gentleman  sadly;  "but  if 
Trix  will  coiisent,  by  (ieoige  !  I'll  go  with  her  to  church  to- 
morrow. There's  my  pay — my  habits  ain't  expensive,  like 
some  t'ellows — we  could  get  along  on  that  for  a  while,  and 
then  I  have  expectations  from  my  grandniother.  I've  had 
expectations  from  my  grandmother  for  the  last  twelve 
years,  sir,  and  every  day  of  those  twelve  years  she's  been 
dying  ;  and,  by  (ieorge  I  she  ain't  d'wd  yet,  you  know.  It's 
wonderful — I  give  you  my  word — it's  wonderful,  the  way 
grandmothers  and  maiden  aunls  with  money  do  hold  out. 
As  Dundreary  says,  'It's  something  no  fellow  can  under- 
stand.' r.ut  tiiat  ain't  what  I  wanted  to  say — it's  this  :  if 
you're  willing,  and  Trix  is  willing,  I'll  get  leave  of  absence 
and  come  overlay  the  next  sliii>,  and  we'll  be  married.  I — 
I'll  be  the  liapi)iest  fellow  alive,  Stuart,  the  day  your  sister 
becomes  my  wife." 

You  are  not  to  su])i)ose  that  Captain  Il.immnnd  made 
this  speech  tluently  and  eloiiuently,  as  I  have  reported  it. 
The  words  are  his,  but  the  long  pauses,  the  stammerings, 
the  rejjetitions,  the  hesitations  I  have  mercifully  withheld. 
Mis  cigar  was  (piite  smoked  out  by  the  time  he  had  finished, 
and  with  nervous  haste  he  set  about  lighting  another.  I'Or 
Mr.  .Stuart,  tilted  back  in  his  chair,  his  shining  boots  on  the 
window  sill  of  the  drawing-iKom,  ga/ing  out  at  the  gas-lit 
highways  of  Liverpool,  he  listened  in  abstracted  silence. 
Tliere  was  a  long  ]niuse  after  the  captain  concluded— then 
Charley  opened  his  lips  and  spoke  : 


272 


THE  SUMMONS. 


I 


"This  is  all  nonsense,  you  know,  Hammond,"  he  said 
gravely,  "  folly — madness,  on  your  i^art.  A  week  ago, 
when  we  thought  'I'rixy  an  heiress,  the  case  looked  very 
different,  you  see  ;  then  I  would  have  shaken  hands  with 
you,  and  bestowed  my  blessiuLr  u[)on  your  virtuous  endeav- 
ors. But  all  that  is  changed  now.  As  far  as  1  can  see,  we 
are  beggars— literally  beggus — wuhout  a  dollar  ;  and  when 
we  get  to  New  York  noihmg  will  remain  for  'I'ri.xy  and  me 
but  to  roll  U[)  our  sleeves  and  go  to  work.  What  we  are  to 
work  at.  Heaven  knows;  we  have  come  ui)  like  the  lilies 
of  the  field,  who  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin.  It  is  rather 
late  in  the  day  to  take  lessons  in  spinning  now,  but  you  see 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  1  don't  say  mucii,  Hanunond,  but  I 
feel  this.  I  hold  a  man  to  be  something  less  than  a  man 
who  will  go  through  life  h.owHng  over  a  loss  of  this  kind. 
There  nre  V  orse  losses  than  that  of  fortune  in  thewoild." 
He  paused  a  moment,  and  his  dreamy  eyes  looked  far  out 
over  the  crowded  city  street.      "  1  cUways  thought  my  father 


was  as  rich  as  Crow — Cia3 — the  rich  tellow,  you  know, 


Ih 


always  (pu3ie  in  print.     It  S(.;cme<l  an  invpossibility  that  we 


could 


ever  be  jraor. 


:our 


family 


are  wea 


J  kit 

Ithy,  y 


we  are,  am 


1  there  is  an  end  of  it. 


Ol 


ur  lather  has  a   title 


think  lie  would  listen  to  this  tor  a  moment  ?' 


i\o  y 


oil 


My   family   may  go     hang  I"    burst   fcMth   the  capt 


im. 


"What  till,'  deuce  have  they  got  to  do  with  it.      If  Trixy  is 
willing — " 

"  Trixy  will  not  be  willing  to  enter  any  family  on  those 
terms,"  'I'rixy's  brother  said,  in  that  quiet  way  of  his,  which 
could  yet  be  siuh  an  obstinate  way  ;  "  and  what  I  mean  to 
say  is  tiiis  :  A  marriage  for  the  jnesent  is  totally  and  abso- 
lutely out  of  the  (juestion.      You  and  she  may  make  love  to 

by  th 


letters  across  the  ocean 


e 


and  remain   con- 

I  " 


your  heart  s  coiiient— wiiti 

bushel,  be  engagetl  as  fa^'  as  )ou  i)leasi. 

stant  at  long  as  you  like.      Hut  maniage— no,  no,  no 

That  was  the  end  of  it.  Charley  was  not  to  be  moved  — 
neither,  indeed,  on  the  marriage  (luestion,  waL->  Trix.  "  Did 
Angus  think  iier  a  wretcii — a  monster — to  ilesert  her  poor 
pa  and  ma,  juil  now,  when  they  wanted  her  most,  and  go 
off  with  him  i*  Not  likely.  1  le  might  take  back  his  ring  if 
he  liked — she  wouhl  not  jiold  him  to  his  engagement — she 
was  ready  and  willing  to  set  him  I'ree — " 


tht 
JJi 

plit 
"I> 

fron 
ben 


\\ 


u 


THE  SUMMOyS. 


273 


IM) 

it" 


••  So  Jamie,  an'  ye  dinna  wait 
Yc  t'.iina  marry  mc," 

sang  Charley,  as  Trix  broke  down  here  ami  sobbed.  Then 
with  a  half  smile  on  his  face  he  went  out  of  tlie  room,  and 
Trixy's  tears  were  dried  on  Angus  Jianwnond's  faithful 
breast. 

Next  day,  a  gray  ovcrcas*.  ^^looniy  day,  the  shij)  sailed. 
Captain  Hatninond  went  with  tlicin  on  board,  returning  in 
the  tender.  Tri.c,  leaning  on  her  father's  arm,  crying  beliind 
her  veil  ;  Charley,  by  his  mother's  sitle,  stood  on  deck  wlule 
the  tender  steamed  back  to  tlie  clock.  And  there  under  the 
gray  sky,  with  the  bleak  wind  blowing,  and  the  ship  tossing 
on  the  ugly  short  ciiop  of  the  river,  they  took  their  i)arling 
look  at  the  English  shore,  with  but  one  friendly  face  to 
watch  them  away,  and  that  the  ginger-whiskered  face  of 
Captain  Hannnoiul. 

Fxlith  Darrell  left  CharK^y  Stuart,  and  returned  to  the 
brilliantly-lit  drawing  rouin,  wiiere  her  lover  and  Lady 
Helena  and  their  friends  sat  waiting  the  announcement  of 
dimier.  Sir  Victor's  watchful  eyes  saw  her  enter.  Sir  \'ic- 
tor's  loving  glance  saw  the  |)allnr,  like  the  pallor  of  death, 
upon  her  face.  She  walked  sieatlily  over  to  a  chair  in  the 
curtained  recess  of  a  wimlow,  He  was  held  captive  by 
Lady  Portia  Hampton,  and  could  not  join  her.  A  second 
after  there  was  a  sort  of  sobbing  gasp — a  lieavy  tall.  lOvery- 
body  started,  and  arose  in  consternation.  Miss  Darrell 
had  fallen  from  her  chair,  and  lay  on  the  iloor  in  a  de.id 
faint. 

Her  lover,  as  p.ilc  almost  as  herself,  lifted  her  in  his  arms, 
the  cold,  beautiful  face  lying,  like  death  on  his  shoulder. 
]5ut  it  WIS  not  death. 

They  carried  her  up  to  her  room — restoratives  were  ap- 
])lied,  and  presently  the  great  dark  eyes  oi)ened,  and  looked 
u[)  into  her  lo\t'r's  face. 

She  covered  her  own  with  her  hands,  and  turned  away 
from  him,  as  though  the  sight  was  distasteful  to  her.  He 
bi'ul  above  her,  ahno^^t  agoni/ed  ih.it  anylinng  should  ail  his 
id..l. 

"My  darling,"  he  saiil  tremulously.  "What  was  it? 
What  can  1  do  lor  you  ?     Tell  me." 


mmmm. 


274 


7V/£  SUMMONS. 


"  Go  away,"  was  the  dull  answer  ;  "  only  that — go  away 
everylMjcly,  and  leave  n)e  alone." 

They  strove  to  reason  with  lier — some  one  sought  to  stay 
with  Iier.  Lady  Helena,  Sir  Victor — either  would  give  \\\) 
their  place  at  dinner  and  remain  at  the  bedside. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  was  her  answering  cry,  "  they  must  not. 
She  was  better  again — she  needed  no  one,  she  wanted  nodi- 
ing,  only  to  be  left  alone." 

They  left  her  alone — she  was  trembling  with  nervous  ex- 
citenient,  a  little  more  and  hysterics  would  set  in--they 
dared  not  disobey.  They  left  lier  alone,  with  a  watchful  at- 
tendant on  the  alert  in  the  dressiiiir  room. 

She  lay  u])on  the  dainty  I''rench  bed,  her  dark  hair,  from 
which  the  tlowers  had  been  taken,  tossed  over  the  white 
pillows,  her  hands  clasjjed  above  her  iiead,  her  dark,  large 
eyes  fi.\ed  on  the  opjxjsite  wall.  So  she  lay  motionless, 
neither,  si)eaking  nor  stirring  for  hours,  with  a  sort  of  dull, 
numb  aciiing  at  her  heart.  They  stole  in  softly  to  her  bed- 
side many  limes  througii  the  night,  always  to  find  her  like 
that,  lying  with  blank,  wide-open  eyes,  never  noticing  nor 
speaking  to  them.  W'iien  morning  broke  she  awoke  from  a 
dull  sort  of  sleep,  her  head  burning,  her  lii)s  parched,  her 
eyes  glittering  with  fever. 

They  sent  for  the  doctor.  He  felt  her  iiulse,  looked  at 
her  tongue,  asked  (juestions,  and  shook  his  head.  Over- 
wrought nerves  tiie  whole  of  it.  Her  mind  must  have  been 
over-excited  for  some  time,  and  this  was  the  result.  No 
danger  was  to  be  ajiprehended  ;  careful  nursing  would  re- 
store her  in  a  week  or  two,  combined  with  i)erfect  quiet. 
Then  a  change  of  air  and  scene  would  be  beneficial — say  a 
trip  to  Scarborough  or  Torquay  now.  They  would  give  her 
this  saline  draught  just  at  present  and  not  worry  about  her. 
The  young  lady  would  be  all  right,  on  his  word  and  honor, 
my  dear  Sir  Victor,  in  a  week  or  two. 

Sir  Victor  listened  very  gloomily.  He  hid  heard  from  the 
hall  porter  of  Mr.  Stuart's  flying  visit,  and  of  his  brief  inter- 
view with  Miss  D.vrrell.  It  was  very  strange— his  luisly 
coming,  his  hasty  going,  without  seeing  any  of  them,  his  in- 
terview with  lulith,  and  her  fainting-fit  immediately  after. 
Why  had  he  come?  What  had  transpired  at  that  inter- 
view?    The    green-eyed   monster  look  the  baronet's  heart 


br 
an 

.\ 

fou 
Csc 


THE  SUMMONS. 


275 


notiimg. 


between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  gave  it  a  most  terrible 
twiiit^fe.  , 

lie  watched  over  her  when  tliey  let  him  into  that  darken- 
ed chamber,  as  a  mother  may  over  an  only  and  darling 
child.     If  he  lost  her  ! 

"  O  Heaven  !  "  he  cried  passionately,  rcbelliously, 
"rather  let  me  die  than  that !  " 

He  asked  her  no  fiuestions — lie  was  afraid.  His  heart 
sank  within  liiiii,  she  lay  so  cold,  so  while,  so  utterly  indif- 
ferent whether  he  came  or  went.  He  was  nothing  to  her — 
Would  lie  ever  be  ? 

Lady  1.  lena,  less  in  love,  and  consequently  less  a 
coward,  asked  the  question  her  nephew  dared  not  ask  : 
"  What  had  brought  Mr.  Charles  Stuart  to  Powyss  I'lace  ? 
What  had  made  iicr,  Edith,  faint  ?" 

The  dark  sombre  eyes  turned  from  the  twilight  i)rospect, 
seen  through  the  oi)en  window,  and  met  her  Lidysliip's 
susi)icious  eyes  steadily.  "Mr.  Stuart  had  come  down  to 
tell  her  some  very  bad  news.  His  father  had  failed — they 
were  ruined.  They  had  to  leave  iMigland  in  two  days  for 
home — he  had  only  come  to  l)id  her  a  last  farewell." 

Then  the  sombre  brown  eyes  went  back  to  the  blue-gray 
sky,  the  crystal  July  moon,  the  velvet,  green  grass,  the  dark 
murmuring  trees,  the  birds  twittering  in  the  leafy  branches, 
and  she  was  still  again. 

Lady  'Helena  was  shocked,  surprised,  grieved.  I'ut—  why 
had  Edi'..  fainted  ? 

"  1  don't  know,"  Edith  answered.  "  I  never  fliinted  be- 
fore in  my  "fe,  I  think  1  have  not  been  very  strong  lately. 
;  *"  It  well  enough  when  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room — 
.;  minute  after  1  grew  giddy  and  fell.  I  remember  no 
more." 

"  W(j  will  fake  you  away,  my  dear,"  her  ladyship  said 
cheerfi'uy.  "  We  will  take  you  to  Torquay.  Changes  of 
air  and  scene,  as  the  doctor  says,  are  the  tonics  you  need  to 
brace  your  nerves.  Ah  !  old  or  young,  all  we  i)oor  women 
are  martyrs  to  nerves." 

They  took  her  to  Torquav  in  the  second  week  of  July. 
.■\  pretty  litile  villa  near  ilesketh  Crescrnt  had  been  hired  ; 
four  servants  froni  Powyss  I'lace  ])recetled  them  ;  Sir  Victor 
escorted  them,  and  saw  them  duly  installed.     He  returned 


276 


THE  SUMMONS. 


.  again — partly  because  the  work  going  on  at  Catheron 
Koyals  needed  his  presence,  partly  because  Lady  Helena 
gravely  and  earnestly  urged  it. 

"My  dear  Victor,"  she  said,  "don't  force  too  much  of 
your  society  upon  Edith.  1  know  girls.  Even  if  she  were 
in  love  with  you" — the  young  man  winced — "she  would  grow 
tired  of  a  lover  who  never  left  her  sight.  All  women  do. 
If  you  want  iier  to  grow  fond  of  you,  go  away,  write  to  her 
every  day — not  too  lover-like  love-letters  ;  one  may  have  a 
surfeit  of  sweets;  just  cheerful,  jjleasant,  sensible  letters — 
as  a  young  man  in  love  can  write.  Come  down  this  day 
three  weeks,  and,  if  we  are  ready,  take  us  home." 

The  young  man  made  a  wry  face — much  as  he  used  to  do 
when  his  good  aunt  urged  him  to  swallow  a  dose  of  nauseous 
medicine. 

"  In  three  weeks  !  My  dear  Lady  Helena,  what  are  you 
thinking  of?  We  are  to  be  married  the  fu sL  week  of 
September." 

"  October,  Victor — October — not  a  day  sooner.  Yon 
must  wail  uuiil  lAlith  is  completely  restored.  There  is  no 
suclii  de»^";'.ae  haste.     You  .iri-  not  likclv   to  lose  her." 

"  I  ajDQ  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  b.iid,  half  sulleni}-  under 
his  breath  ;  "  and  a  postponed  marri,.ge  is  the  must  uuhicky 
tttsmz^  in  tliv  world." 

**•£  don't  believe  in  lack  \  I  do  in  common-sense."  his 
arnint  letorteil,  rather  shu.ri)ly.  "  You  are  like  a  spoileil  <  hild. 
Victor,  crying  fior  the  moon.  It  is  Edith's  own  reciuest,  if 
you  will  hare  it — this  postponement.  And  Edith  is  right. 
You  don't  want  a  limp,  pallid,  half-dying  bridi.,  I  supiioso. 
Give  her  time  to  get  strong — give  her  time  to  learn  to  like 
you — your  ])atient  waiting  will  go  far  towards  it.  Tid-ie  my 
word,  it  will  be  the  wiser  course." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  obedience.  He  took  his 
leave  and  went  back  to  Cheshire.  It  was  his- first  i)arting 
from  Edith.  How  he  felt  it,  no  words  can  tell.  I!ut  llie  fact 
remained — he  went. 

She  drew  a  long,  dee]}  breath  aa  she  said  good-by,  and 
watched  him  away.  All  !  what  a  ditferent  farewell  to  that 
oilier  only  two  short  weeks  ago.  She  tried  not  to  think  of 
that — honestly  and  earnestly  ;  she  tried  to  forget  the  face 
that  haunted  her,  the  voice   tiiat  rang  in  her  ears,  the  warm 


I 

C( 

ni 
al 
h. 


THE  SUMMONS. 


277 


uy 


H^ 


iml 
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hand-clasj),  the  kisses  tint  sealed  their  jiarting.  Her  love, 
her  duty,  her  allegiance,  her  thoughts — all  were  due  to  Sir 
Victor  now.  \x\  the  quiet  days  that  were  tu  be  there,  she 
would  try  to  forget  the  love  of  her  life — try  to  reuieniber 
that  of  all  men  on  earth  Sir  X'ictor  Catheron  was  the  only 
man  she  had  any  right  to  think  of 

And  she  succeeded  i)arlly.  Wandering  along  the  tawny 
sands,  with  the  l)lue  bright  sea  spreading  away  before  her, 
drinking  in  the  soft  salt  air,  lulith  grew  strong  in  body  and 
mind  once  more.  Charley  Stuart  had  passed  forever  out  of 
her  life — driven  hence  by  her  own  acts  ;  she  would  be  the 
most  drivelling  of  uliots,  the  bas''st  of  traitors,  to  ])ine  for 
hini  now.  Her  step  grew  elastic,  her  eye  grew  bright,  her 
beauty  and  bloom  returned.  She  met  hosts  of  i)leasant 
])eople,  and  her  laugh  came  sweetly  t<j  Lady  Helena's  ears. 
Since  her  nephew  must  marry — since  his  heart  was  set  »-'n 
this  girl — Lady  Helena  wished  to  see  hi  r  a  healthy  and 
haj'ijy  wife. 

Sir  Victor's  letters  came  daily  ;  the  girl  smiled  as  she 
glanced  carelessly  over  them,  tore  them  up,  and  answen-d 
— about  half  Love  him  she  dii.1  not  ;  but  she  was  learning 
to  think  very  kindly  of  him.  It  is  quite  in  the  sco|)e  of  a 
woman's  complex  nature  to  love  one  man  jiassionateiv,  and 
like  another  very  much.  It  was  Ldith's  case — she  liked  Sir 
Victor  ;  and  when,  at  the  end  of  three  werks,  he  came  to 
join  them,  she  could  ajjproach  and  give  him  her  hand  with 
a  fiank,  gl  id  smile  of  welcome.  The  throe  weeks  had  been 
as  three  centuries  to  this  ardent  young  lover.  His  delight 
to  see  his  darling  l)looming,  and  well,  and  wholly  restored, 
almost  rei)aid  hini.  .Xnd  three  days  after  the  tiiul  returned 
together  to  Powyss  I'lace,  to  part,  as  he  whispered,  no 
more. 

It  was  the  nnddle  of  August  now.  In  spite  of  Ivlith's 
protest,  grand  preparations  were  being  made  for  the  wi;d- 
ding — a  magnificent  trousseau  having  l)een  ordered. 

"SiniplicUy  is  all  very  well,"  Lulv  Helena  answered  .Miss 
Darrell,  "but  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  bride  nnist  dress  as  be- 
conii.'s  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  station.  In  three  years  fio::i 
now,  if  you  prefer  white  muslin  and  si:iiplii:ity.  prefer  it  by 
all  means.  About  the  wedding-dress,  you  will  kinilly  let  me 
have  my  own  way." 


2/8 


THE  SUMMONS, 


Edith  desisted  ;  she  appealed  no  more  ;  passive  to  all 
changes,  she  let  herself  drift  along,  'i'lie  third  of  Oetoher 
was  to  be  the  wedding-day  ;  my  ladies  (iwendoline  and 
Laura  Drexel,  the  two  chief  liridesmaids — th.en  three  others, 
all  daughters  of  old  friends  of  I.ady  Helena.  The  pretty, 
picturesciue  town  of  Carnarvon,  in  North  Wales,  was  to  be 
the  nest  of  the  turtledoves  during  the  honeymoon — then 
away  to  the  Continent,  then  back  for  the  Christmas  festivi- 
ties at  Catheron  Royals. 

Catheron  Royals  was  fast  Ijecoming  a  jialace  for  a  jiriii- 
cess — its  grounds  a  sort  of  enchantetl  fairy-land.  Edith  walked 
through  its  lofty,  echoing  halls,  its  long  suites  of  suini)tuons 
drawing-rooms,  libraries,  billiard  and  ball  rooms.  The  suite 
fitted  up  for  herself  was  gorgeous  in  purple  and  gold — velvet 
and  bullion  fringe — in  i^ictures  that  were  wonders  of  loveli- 
ness— in  mirror-lined  walls,  in  all  that  boundless  wealth  and 
love  could  lavish  on  its  idol.  Leaning  on  her  proud  and 
haj^py  bridegroom's  arm,  she  walked  through  them  all.  half 
dazed  with  all  the  wealth  of  color  and  splendor,  and  wonder- 
ing if  "  1  be  1."  Was  it  a  fairy  tale,  or  was  all  this  for  Edith 
Darrell  ? — Edith  Darrell,  who  such  a  brief  while  gone,  used 
to  sweep  and  dust,  sew  and  darn,  in  dull,  imlovely  Sandy- 
point,  and  get  a  new  meiino  dress  twice  a  year?  No,  it 
could  not  be — such  transformation  scenes  never  look  place 
out  of  a  Christmas  jiantomime  or  a  burlesque  Arabian 
Night — it  was  all  a  dream — a  fairy  fortune  that,  like  fairy 
gold,  would  change  to  dull  slate  stones  at  light  of  day.  She 
would  never  be  Lady  (Catheron,  never  be  mi>tress  of  this 
glittering  Aladdin's  l^alace.  It  grew  u|)on  her  day  after 
day,  this  feeling  of  vagueness,  of  unreality.  She  was  just 
adrift  upon  a  shining  river,  and  one  of  these  days  she  would 
go  stranded  ashore  on  hidilcn  quicksands  and  foul  ground. 
Something  would  happen.  The  days  went  by  like  drer-n  — 
it  was  the  middle  oi  September.  In  little  more  than  a  fort- 
night would  come  the  third  of  Octobt'r  and  the  wedding-day. 
Hut  somt.'thing  would  iiappen.  As  surely  as  she  lived  and 
saw  it  all,  she  felt  that  somediing  would  h;ippen. 

Something  did.  On  the  eighteenth  of  September  there 
came  from  London,  late  in  the  evening,  a  trlegrani  for  Lady 
Helena.  Sir  Victor  was  with  Edith  at  the  piano  in  the 
drawing-room.     In  hut  haste  his  aunt  sent  for  him  ;  he  went 


c 

or 


IS 

ni 


AT  POPLAR  LODGE. 


79 


at  once.  He  found  Iicr  pale,  terrified,  excited  ;  she  held  out 
the  telegram  to  him  without  a  word.  He  read  it  slowly: 
"  Come  at  once.     Vetch  Victor.     lie  is  dyiny. — iNiiZ." 


ch.\pti:r  xix. 


AT  POPLAR    LODGE. 


y 
le 
nt 


ALT  an  hour  had  passed  and  Sir  Victor  did  not  re- 
turn. Edith  still  remained  at  the  piano,  the  gleam 
of  the  candles  falling  upon  her  thoughtful  face, 
jilaying  the  weird  '*  Moonlight  Sonata."  She 
played  so  softly  that  the  shrill  whistling  of  the  wind  around 
the  gables,  the  heavy  soughing  of  the  trees,  was  jihiinly 
audible  above  it.  Ten  minutes  more,  and  her  lover  did  not 
return.  Wondering  a  little  what  the  telegram  could  contain, 
she  arose  and  walked  to  the  window,  drew  the  curtains  and 
looked  out.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  were  nuivi- 
berless,  and  lit  dimly  the  jiark.  As  she  stootl  watching  the 
trees,  writhing  in  the  autumnal  gale,  she  heard  a  step  behind 
her.  She  glanced  over  her  shoulder  with  a  half  smile — a 
smile  that  died  on  her  lips  as  she  saw  the  grave  pallor  of 
Sir  Victor's  face. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked  quickly.  "Lady 
Helena's  dispatch  contained  bad  news  ?  It  is  nothing" — 
she  caught  her  breatli — "  nothing  concerning  the  Stuarts  ?" 

"  Nothing  concerning  the  Stuarts.  It  is  from  London — 
from  Inez  Catheron.      Jt  is — that  my  father  is  dying." 

She  said  nothing.  She  stood  looking  at  him,  antl  waiting 
for  more. 

"  It  seems  a  strange  thing  to  say,"  he  went  on,  "that  one 
does  not  know  whether  to  call  one's  father's  death  ill  news 
or  not.  I)Ut  considering  the  living  death  he  has  led  for 
twenty-three  years,  one  can  hardiv  call  death  and  release  a 
misfortune.  The  strange  diing.  the  alarming  tiling  about  it, 
is  the  way  Lady  Helena  takes  it.  One  would  think  siie 
niiijht  be  preiiared,  that  considering  his  life  and  siift'erings, 


280 


AT  POPLAR  LODGE. 


she  would  rather  rejoice  than  grieve  :  but,  I  give  j'ou  my 
word,  the  way  in  which  she  lakes  it  honestly  frightens 
me." 

Still  Edith  made  no  reply — still  her  thoughtful  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  his  face. 

"  Siie  seems  stunned,  paralyzed — actually  paralyzed  with 
a  sort  of  terror.  And  that  tenor  seems  to  be,  not  for  liiiii 
or  herself,  but  for  mc.  She  will  e.\i)lain  nothing  ;  she  seems 
unable;  all  presence  of  mintl  seems  to  have  left  her.  No 
time  is  to  be  loi^t  ;  there  is  a  train  in  two  hours  ;  we  go  by 
that.  By  dayliglit  we  will  be  in  London  ;  how  long  before 
we  return  I  cannot  say.  I  hale  the  thought  of  a  death  cast- 
ing its  gloom  over  our  marriage.  I  dread  horribly  the 
thought  of  a  second  postponement-  -I  hate  the  idea  of  leav- 
ing you  here  alone." 

Sonu'thirii^  -will  happen.  All  along  her  heart  had  whis- 
pered it,  and  here  it  was.  And  yet  the  long  tense  breath 
she  drew  was  very  like  a  breath  of  relief 

"  Vou  are  not  to  think  of  me."  she  said  quietl\',  after  a 
pause.  *'  Your  duty  is  to  the  dying.  Nothing  will  befall 
me  in  your  absence — don't  let  the  thought  of  me  in  anyway 
trouble  you.  I  shall  do  very  well  with  my  books  and  nnisic  ; 
and  Lady  (Iwendoline,  I  dare  say.  will  drive  over  occasion- 
ally and  sec  me.  Of  course  u<liy  yon  go  to  London  is  for 
the  i)resent  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  What  horrible  ex])Ianatii)ns  and  gossij)  the 
fact  of  his  death  at  this  late  date  will  involve.  l'",veiy  one  has 
thought  him  dead  for  over  twenty  years.  I  can't  understand 
this  secrecy,  this  mystery — the  world  should  iiave  been  told 
the  truth  from  the  Inst.  If  there  was  any  motive  I  suppose 
they  will  tell  me  to-night,  and  I  confess  1  shrink  from  hear- 
ing any  more  than  I  hive  already  heard." 

His  face  was  very  dark,  very  gloomy,  as  he  gazed  out  at 
the  starlit  night.  A  present im>:iit  that  something  evil  was  in 
store  for  him  weighed  upon  him,  engendered,  perhaps,  by  the 
incomprehensible  alarm  of  Lady  Helena. 

The  prejiarations  for  the  journey  were  hurried  and  few. 
Lady  Helena  descendetl  to  the  carriage,  leaning  on  her 
maid's  arm.     She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Kdiih  completely, 


until    l-'.dith    advanced  to    sav   "ood-bv. 


"hen 


m  a  con- 


strained, mechanical   sort  of  way  she  gave   her  her  hand 


AT  POPLAR  LODGE. 


281 


|\v. 


spoke  a  few  brief  words  of  farewell,  and  drew  back  into  a 
corner  of  the  carriage,  a  darker  shadow  in  the  gloom. 

In  the  drawingrooin,  in  travelling-cap  and  overcoat,  Sir 
Victor  held  Editli's  hand,  lingering  strangely  over  the  i)art- 
ing — strangely  reluclant  to  say  farewell. 

"  Do  yoa  believe  in  jiresentinient  s  Edith  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  have  a  presenlinient  dial  we  will  never  meet  again  like 
this — that  something  will  have  come  between  us  before  we 
meet  again.  1  cannot  defme  it.  1  cannot  explain  it.  1 
only  know  it  is  there." 

"  1  don't  believe  in  presentiments,"  i'"(lith  answered  cheer- 
fully. "  1  never  had  one  in  my  life.  J  believe  they  are  only 
another  name  for  dyspepsia  ;  and  telegrams  and  hurried  night 
journeys  are  mostly  contluclive  to  gloom.  When  the  sun 
shines  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  have  had  a  strong  cup 
of  coffee,  you  will  be  ready  to  laugh  at  your  presentiments. 
Nothing  is  likely  to  come  between  us." 

"Nothing  shall — nothing,  1  swear  it  !  "  lie  caught  her 
in  his  arms  with  a  straining  clasp,  and  kissed  her  passion- 
ately for  the  lirst  time.  "  Nothing  in  this  lower  woild  shall 
ever  separate  us.  1  have  no  life  now  ajjart  from  you.  And 
nothing,  not  death  itself,  shall  po.-.tpone  our  mariiage.  Jt 
vas  posti)oned  once  ;  1  wish  it  never  had  been.  It  shall 
never  be  postponed  again." 

"CJo,  go  I  "  Kdith  cried;  "some  one  is  coming — you  will 
be  late." 

There  was  not  a  minute  to  spare.  He  dashed  down  the 
stairs,  down  the  i>ortico  steps,  anil  sjjrang  into  the  carriage 
beside  his  aunt.  'I'iie  d'iver  cracked  his  whip,  the  horses 
started,  the  carriage  rolli  il  nw.xy  into  the  gloom  and  the  nigiit. 
Ldith  Darrell  stood  at  tiie  win' low  until  the  last  sound  of  the 


\vueels  ( 


heil 


away, 


and 


ir   10 


ig  aiter. 


A  St 


range   silence 


seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  tlie  great  house  with  the  going 
of  its  mistress.  In  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  in  the  dim 
blue  starlight,  the  girl  sat  tlown  to  think.  There  was  son)e 
mystery,  involving  the  murder  of  the  late  Lady  Catheron,  at 
work  here,  she  felt.  (Irief  for  the  loss  of  his  wife  might 
have  driven  Sir  Victor  Catheron  mad,  but  why  u'lake 
such  a  profound  secret  of  it  ?  Why  give  out  that  he  was 
dead?  Why  allow  his  son  to  step  into  the  tule  before  his 
tiiiie  ?     Jf  Juan  Cadieron  were  the  murderer,  Juan  Cath- 


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Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


X 


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282 


AT  POPLAR  LODGE. 


eron  the  outlaw  and  Pariah  of  his  family,  why  screen  him  as 
though  he  had  been  the  idol  anil  treasure  of  all,  and  let  the 
dead  go  unavenged  ?  Why  this  strange  terror  of  Lady 
Helena's  ?  why  her  insufferable  aversion  to  her  nephew  mar- 
rying at  all  ? 

Yes,  there  was  something  hidden,  something  on  the  cards 
not  yet  brought  to  light  ;  and  to  th"  death-bed  of  Sir  Victor 
Catheron  the  elder.  Sir  Victor  Catheron  the  younger  had 
been  summoned  to  hear  the  whole  truth. 

Would  he  tell  it  to  her  upon  his  return,  she  wondered. 
Well,  if  he  did  not,  she  had  no  right  to  complain — she  had 
her  secret  from  him.  There  was  .iiadness  in  the  family — 
she  shrank  a  little  at  the  thought  for  the  first  time.  Who 
knew,  whether  latent  and  unsuspected,  the  taint  might  not 
be  in  the  blood  and  brains  of  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
about  to  bind  herself  for  life?  Who  was  to  tell  when  it 
might  break  forth,  in  what  horrible  shape  it  UMght  show 
itself?  To  be  the  widowed  wife  of  a  madman — what  wealth 
and  title  on  earth  could  com|)ensate  for  that?  She  shivered 
as  she  sat,  i)arlly  with  the  chill  night  air,  partly  with  the 
horror  of  the  thought.  In  her  youth,  and  health,  and 
beauty,  her  predecessor  had  been  struck  down,  the  bride  of 
another  Sir  Victor.  So  long  she  sat  there  that  a  clock  up 
in  the  lofty  turret  struck,  heavily  and  solemnly,  twelve. 
The  house  was  still  as  the  grave — all  shut  up  except  this 
room  where  she  sat,  all  retired  except  her  maid  and  the 
butler.  They  yawned  sleejjily,  and  waited  for  her  to  retire. 
Chilled  and  white,  the  girl  arose  at  last,  took  her  night-light, 
and  went  slowly  up  to  bed. 

"  Is  the  game  worth  the  candle  after  all?"  she  thought. 
"  Ah    me !    what   a   miserable,    vacill:iling  creature    I    am. 
\Vhate''er  comes — the  worst  or  the  best 
for  it  now  but  to  go  on  to  the  end." 

Meantime,  through  the  warm,  starry  night,  the  train  was 
speeding  on  to  London,  bearing  Sir  Victor  Catheron  to  the 
turning  point  of  his  life.  He  and  his  aunt  had  their  car- 
riage all  to  themselves.  Still  in  dead  silence,  still  with  that 
pale,  terrified  look  on  her  face.  Lady  Helena  lay  back  in  a 
corner  ai.iong  the  cushions.  Once  or  twice  her  nephew 
spoke  to  her — the  voice  in  which  she  answered  him  hardly 
Bounded  like  her  own.     He  gave  it  up  at  last ;  there  was 


there  is  nothing 


: 


AT  POPLAR  LODGE. 


283 


I  was 
the 
Icar- 
llhat 
liii  a 

lidly 

was 


notliing  for  it  but  to  wait  and  let  the  end  come.  He  drevv 
his  cap  over  his  eyes,  lay  back  in  the  opposite  seat,  and 
dozed  and  dreamed  of  lulith. 

In  the  chill,  gray  ligiu  of  an  overcast  morning  they 
reached  Easton  station.  A  sky  like  brown  pajjer  lay  over 
the  million  roofs  of  the  great  liabylon  ;  a  dull,  dim  fog,  that 
stifled  you,  filled  the  air.  The  fog  and  raw  cold  were  more 
like  November  than  the  last  month  of  summer.  Uluc  and 
shivering  in  the  cliill  light,  Sir  Victor  buttoned  up  his  light 
overcoat,  assisted  his  aunt  into  a  eab,  and  gave  the  order — 
"  St.  John's  Wood.     Drive  for  your  life  !  " 

Lady  Helena  knew  I'oplar  Lodge,  of  course;  once  in  the 
vicinity  there  would  be  no  trouble  in  finding  it.  Was  he 
still  alive,  the  young  man  wondered.  How  strange  seemed 
the  thought  that  he  was  about  to  see  his  father  at  last.  It 
was  like  seeing  the  dead  return.  Was  he  sane,  and  would 
he  know  him  when  they  met  ? 

The  overcast  morning  threatened  rain ;  it  began  to  fall 
slowly  and  dismally  as  they  drove  along.  The  London 
streets  looked  unutterably  draggled  and  dreary,  seen  at  this 
early  hour  of  the  wet  morning.  The  cab  driver  urged  his 
horse  to  its  utmost  sjjeed,  and  presently  the  broad  green 
exi)anse  and  tall  trees  of  Regent's  Park  came  in  view. 
L.idy  Helena  gave  the  man  his  direction,  and  in  ten  mi'uites 
they  stopped  before  the  tall,  closed  iron  gates  of  a  solitary 
villa.     It  was  Poplar  Lodge. 

The  baronet  paid  the  man's  fare  and  dismissed  him.  He 
seized  the  gate-bell  and  rang  a  peal  that  seemed  to  tinkle 
half  a  mile  away.  While  he  waited,  holding  an  umbrella 
over  his  aunt,  he  surveyed  the  premises. 

It  was  a  greuaome,  prison-like  place  enough  at  this  forlorn 
hour.  The  stone  walls  were  as  high  as  his  head,  the  view 
between  the  lofty  iron  gates  was  completely  obstructed  by 
trees.  Of  the  house  itself,  except  the  chimney  pots  antl  tlie 
cmling  smoke,  not  a  glimpse  was  to  be  had.  And  for 
three-and-twenty  years  Inez  Catheron  had  buried  herself 
alive  here  with  a  madman  and  two  old  servants  !  He  shud- 
dered internally  as  he  thought  of  it — suiely,  never  devotion 
ar  atonement  equalled  hers. 

They  w.'^ited  nearly  ten  minutes  in  the  rain  ;  then  a 
shantbling  footstep   shambled   down  the  path,  and  an  old 


284 


AT  POPLAR  LODGE. 


face  peered  out  between  the  trelliscd  iron  work.     "  Who  is 
it  ?  "  an  old  voice  asked. 

"It  is  I,  Hooper.  Sir  Victor  and  I.  For  pity's  sake 
don't  keep  us  standing  here  in  the  rain." 

"My  lady  !  Praise  be  ! "  A  key  turned  in  ihe  lock,  the 
gntc  swung  wide,  and  an  aged,  white-haired  man  stood  bow- 
ing before  Lady  Helena. 

"Are  we  in  time?"  was  her  first  breathless  question. 
"  Is  your  master  still — " 

"Still  alive,  my  lady — praise  and  thanks  be  I  Just  in 
time,  and  no  more." 

The  dim  old  eyes  of  Hooper  were  fixed  upon  the  young 
man's  face. 

"  Like  his  father,"  the  old  lips  said,  and  the  old  head 
shook  ominously  ;  "  more's  the  pity — like  his  father." 

Lady  Helena  took  her  nephew's  arm  and  hurried  him, 
under  the  dri|)ping  trees,  up  the  avenue  to  the  house.  Five 
minutes  brought  them  to  it — a  red  brick  villa,  its  shutters  all 
closed.  The  house-door  stood  ajar  ;  without  ceremony  her 
ladyship  entered.  As  she  did  so,  another  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  Inez  Catheron  came  out. 

The  fixedly  pale  face,  could  by  no  possibility  grow  paler 
— could  by  no  |)Ohsil)ility  cliange  its  marble  calm.  IJut  the 
deep,  dusk  eyes  looked  at  the  young  man,  it  seenicd  to  him, 
with  an  infinite  compassion. 

"We  are  in  time?"  his  aunt  spoke. 

"You  are  in  time,  in  one  moment  you  will  see  him. 
There  is  not  a  second  to  lose,  and  he  knows  it.  He  has 
begged  you  to  be  brought  to  him  the  moment  you  arrive." 

"  He  knows,  then.  Oh,  thank  God !  Reason  has  re- 
turned at  last." 

"  Reason  has  returned.  Since  yesterday  he  has  been  per- 
fectly sane.  His  first  words  were  that  his  son  should  be 
sent  for,  that  the  truth  should  be  told." 

There  was  a  half-suppressed  sob.  Lady  Helena  covered 
her  face  with  both  hands.  Her  nephew  looked  at  her,  then 
back  to  Miss  Catheron.  The  white  face  kept  its  cahn, 
the  pitying  eyes  looked  at  him  with  a  gentle  compassion 
no  words  can  tell. 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  she  said  ;  "  I  must  tell  him  you  are 
here." 


AT  POPLAR  LODGE. 


285 


re- 


1  ihon 
Ission 
III  are 


She  hurried  upstairs  and  disappeared.  Neither  of  the 
two  spoke.  Lady  Helena's  face  was  still  hidden.  He 
knew  that  she  was  crying — silent,  miserable  tears — tears 
that  were  for  him.  He  stood  pale,  composed,  expectant — 
waiting  for  the  end. 

"Come  up,"  Miss  Catheron's  soft  voice  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs  called.  Once  more  he  gave  his  aunt  his  arm, 
once  more  in  silence  they  went  in  togetlier. 

A  breathless  hush  seemed  to  lie  upon  the  house  and  all 
within  it.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  except  the  soft 
rustle  of  the  trees,  the  soft,  ceaseless  patter  of  the  summer 
rain.  In  that  silence  they  entered  the  chamber  where  the 
dying  man  lay.  To  the  hour  of  his  own  death,  that  moment 
and  all  he  saw  was  photographed  indelibly  upon  Victor 
Catheron's  mind.  The  dim  gray  light  of  the  room,  the 
great  white  bed  in  the  centre,  and  the  awfully  corpse-like 
face  of  the  man  lying  among  the  pillows,  and  gazing  at  him 
with  hollow,  spectral  eyes.      His  father — at  last! 

He  advanced  to  the  bedside  as  though  under  a  spell. 
The  spectral  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  steadfastly,  the 
pallid  lips  slowly  opened  and  spoke. 

"  Like  me — as  k  was — like  me.     Ethel's  son." 

"  My  father  ! " 

He  was  on  his  knees — a  great  awe  upon  him.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  his  young  life  he  had  ever  been  in  the  pres- 
ence of  death.  And  the  dying  was  his  father,  and  his  father 
whom  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"  Like  me,"  the  faint  lips  repeated  ;  "  my  face,  my  height, 
n)y  name,  my  age.  Like  me.  O  God  !  will  his  end  be 
like  mine  ?" 

A  thrill  of  horror  ran  through  all  his  hearers.  His  son 
strove  to  take  his  hand ;  it  was  withdrawn.  A  frown 
wrinkled  the  pallid  brow. 

"Wait,"  he  said  painfully;  "don't  touch  me;  don't 
speak  to  me.  VV^ait.  Sit  down  ;  don't  kneel  there.  V  1 
don't  know  what  you  are  about  to  hear.     Inez,  tell  him  now." 

She  closed  the  door — still  with  that  changeless  face — ■ 
and  locked  it.  It  seemed  as  though,  having  suffered  so 
nuich,  nothing  had  power  to  move  her  outwardly  now. 
She  placed  a  chair  for  Lady  Helena  away  from  the  bed — 
Lady  Helena,  who  had  stood  aloof  and  not  spoken   to  the 


286 


AT  POPLAR   LODGE. 


dying  man  yet.      She  placed  a  chair  for   Sir  Victor,  and 

motioned  him  to  seat  liimsclf,  tlicn  drew  another  close  to 
the  bedside,  stooped,  and  kissed  tlie  dying  man.  Then  in  a 
voice  that  never  faltered,  never  failed,  she  began  the  story 
she  had  to  tell. 

*  *  «  *  iK  «  « 

Half  an  hour  had  passed.  The  story  was  told,  and  silence 
reigned  in  the  darkened  room.  Lady  Helena  still  sat,  with 
averted  face,  in  her  distant  seat,  not  moving,  not  looking  '-' 
up.  The  dying  man  still  lay  gazing  weirdly  upon  his  soir, 
death  every  second  drawing  nearer  and  more  near.  Inc 
sat  holding  his  hand,  her  pale,  sad  face,  her  dark,  pit}-ing 
eyes  turned  also  upon  his  son. 

That  son  had  risen.  He  stood  up  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  with  a  white,  stunned  face.  What  was  this  he  had 
heard  ?  Was  he  asleei)  and  dreaming  ? — was  it  all  a  horri- 
ble, ghastly  delusion  ? — were  they  mocking  him  ?  or — O 
gracious  God  !  was  it  true  i 

"  Let  me  out !  "  They  were  his  first  words.  "  I  can't 
breathe — I  am  choking  in  this  room  I  1  shall  go  mad  if  you 
keej>  me  here  ! " 

He  staggered  forward,  as  a  drunken  man  or  a  blind  man 
miglit  stagger,  to  the  door.  He  unlocked  it,  opene<'  it, 
passed  out  into  the  passage,  anci  down  the  stairs.  His  aunt 
followed  him,  her  eyes  streaming,  her  hands  outstretched. 

"  Victor — my  boy — my  son — my  darling  !  Victor — for 
the  love  of  Heaven,  speak  to  me  !  " 

But  he  only  made  a  gesture  for  her  to  stand  back,  and 
went  on, 

"  Keep  away  from  me  ! "  he  said,  in  a  stifled  voice  ; 
"let  me  think!  Leave  me  alone! — I  can't  speak  to  you 
yet!" 

He  went  forward  out  into  the  wet  daylight  His  head 
was  bare;  his  overcoat  was  off;  the  rain  beat  unheetk-d 
upon  him.     What  was  this — what  was  this  he  had  heard  ? 

He  paced  up  and  down  under  the  trees.  The  moments 
passed.  An  hour  went ;  he  neither  knew  nor  cared.  He  was 
stunned — stunned  body  and  soul—  too  stunned  even  to  think. 
His  mind  was  in  chaos,  an  awuil  horror  had  fallen  upon  him  ; 
he  must  wait  before  thought  would  come.  Whilst  he  still 
paced  there,  as  a  stricken  animal  might,  a  great  cry  reached 


IIOIV  THE   WEDDING-DAY  BEGAN. 


287 


him.     Then  a  woman's  flying  figure  came  down  the  path. 
It  was  his  aunt. 

"  Come — come — come  !  "  slie  cried  ;  "  he  is  dying  !  " 
She  drew  him  with  her  l)y  main  force  into  the  house — up 
the  stairs — into  tiie  chamber  of  death.  Ikit  Death  had  been 
there  before  them.  A  dead  man  lay  upon  the  bed  now, 
rigid  and  white.  A  second  cry  arose — a  cry  of  ahiiost  more 
than  woman's  woe.  And  with  it  Inez  Calheron  clasped  the 
dead  man  in  lier  arms,  and  covered  iiis  face  with  her  raining 
tears. 

The  son  stood  beside  her  like  a  figure  of  stone,  gazing 
down  at  that  marble  face.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  be 
was  Sir  Victor  Catheron. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


HOW  THE   WliDDING-DAV    BEGAN. 


ink. 
lini ; 
still 
iied 


|IX  days  later,  Sir  Victor  Catheron  and  his  aunt 
came  home.  These  six  days  had  passed  very 
quietly,  very  pleasantly,  to  Edith.  She  was  not  in  the 
least  lonely  ;  the  same  sense  of  relief  in  her  lover's 
absence  was  upon  he  as  she  had  felt  at  Torcjuay.  It  seemed 
to  her  she  breathed  freer  when  a  few  score  miles  lay  between 
them.  She  had  her  pet  books  and  music,  and  she  read  and 
played  a  great  deal ;  she  had  her  long,  solitary  rambles 
through  the  leafy  lai^s  and  quiet  roads,  her  long  drives  in 
the  little  pony  phaeton  her  future  husband  had  given  her. 
Sometimes  Lady  Owendoline  was  her  companion  ;  oftener 
she  was  quite  alone.  She  was  not  at  all  unhappy  now  ;  siie 
was  just  drifting  passively  on  to  the  end.  She  had  tliosen, 
and  was  (juietly  abiding  by  her  choice  ;  that  was  all.  She 
caught  herself  thinking,  sometimes,  that  since  she  felt  sonuuh 
hapi)ier  and  freer  in  Sir  Victor's  brief  absences,  how  was  she 
going  to  endure  all  the  years  that  must  be  passed  at  his  side  ? 
No  doubt  she  would  grow  used  to  him  after  a  while,  as  we 
grow  used  and  reconciled  to  everything  earthly. 

One  circumstance  rather  surprised  her  :  during  those  six 


288 


HOiV  THE   WEDDING-DA  Y  BEGAN. 


clays  of  absence  she  had  received  but  one  note  from  her 

lover.  She  had  coniitcd  at  least  upon  the  post  fetching  her 
one  or  two  per  day,  as  v.lien  at  Torquay,  but  tliis  time  he 
wrote  her  but  once.  An  odd,  incoherent,  luiriicd  sort  of 
note,  too— very  brief  and  unsatisfactory,  if  she  had  had 
much  curiosity  on  the  subject  of  what  was  going  on  at  St. 
Joiin's  Wood.  But  she  iuul  not.  Whether  his  fither  hved 
or  died,  so  that  he  nevi:r  interfered  with  her  claim  to  die 
title  of  Lady  Cafheron  in  the  future.  Miss  Darrell  cared  very 
little.  This  hurried  note  briefly  told  her  his  father  had  died 
on  the  day  of  their  arrival  ;  that  by  his  own  request  the  bur- 
ial place  was  to  be  Kensal  Green,  not  the  Catheron  vaults ; 
that  the  secret  of  his  life  and  death  was  still  to  be  kei)t  in- 
violate ;  and  that  (in  this  part  of  the  note  he  grew  inipassion- 
edly  earnest)  their  marriage  was  not  to  be  postponed.  On 
the  third  of  October,  as  all  had  been  arranged,  it  was  still  to 
take  place.  No  other  note  followed.  If  Miss  Darrell  had 
been  in  love  with  her-future  husband,  this  profound  silence 
must  have  wounded,  surprised,  grieved  her.  IJut  she  was 
not  in  love.  He  must  be  very  much  occupied,  she  care- 
lessly thought,  since  he  could  not  find  time  to  drop  her  a 
daily  bulletin — then  dismissed  the  matter  indifferently  from 
her  mind. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  sixth  day  Sir  Victor  and  Lady 
Helena  refirned  home. 

Edith  stood  alone  awaiting  them,  dressed  in  black  silk, 
and  with  soft  white  lace  and  ruby  ornaments,  and  looking 
very  handsome. 

Her  lover  rushed  in  and  caught  her  in  his  arms  with  a  sort 
of  rapturous,  breathless  delight. 

*'  My  love  !  my  life  !  "  he  cried,  "every  hour  has  been  an 
age  since  I  said  good-by  !  " 

She  drew  herself  from  him.  Sir  Victor,  in  the  calm,  cour- 
teous character  of  a  perfectly  undemonstrative  suitor  she  tol- 
erated. Sir  Victor  in  the  role  of  Romeo  was  excessively 
distasteful  to  her.  She  drew  herself  out  of  his  arms  coldly 
and  decisively. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  back,  Sir  Victor."  But  the  ster- 
eotyped words  of  welcome  fell  cliill  on  his  ear.  "  You  are 
not  looking  well.  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  very  much 
harassed  since  you  left." 


HOW  THE   WEDDING-DAY  BEGAN. 


289 


an 

)ur- 
Itol- 

|ldly 

tter- 

are 

Lich 


Surely  he  was  not  looking  well.  In  those  six  days  he  had 
grown  more  than  six  years  older.  He  had  lost  llesh  and 
color ;  there  was  an  indescribable  something  in  his  face  and 
expression  she  had  ni'vcr  seen  before.  More  \\\(\  iKijjpened 
than  the  dealii  of  the  Luiicr  lie  had  never  known,  to  alter  iii;n 
like  this.     She  looked  at  liin)  curiously.     Would  he  tell  her? 

He  did  not.  Not  looking  at  her,  with  his  eyes  fixed  mood- 
ily on  the  wood-fire  si^oldering  on  the  hearth,  he  repeated 
what  his  letter  had  already  said.  His  father  had  died  the 
morning  of  their  arrival  in  London  ;  ihey  had  buried  him 
quietly  and  unobtrusively,  by  his  own  request,  in  Kensal 
Green  Cemetery  ;  no  one  was  to  be  told,  and  the  wedding 
w„.3  not  to  be  postponed.  All  this  he  said  as  a  man  repeats 
a  lesson  learned  by  rote— his  eyes  never  once  meeting  hers. 

She  stood  silently  by,  looking  at  him,  listening  to  him. 

Something  lay  behind,  then,  that  she  was  not  to  know. 
Well,  it  made  them  quits — she  didn't  care  for  the  Catheron 
family  secrets ;  if  it  were  someUiing  unpleasant,  as  well  not 
know.  If  Sir  Victor  told  her,  very  well ;  if  not,  very  well 
also.     She  cared  little  either  way. 

"  Miss  Catheron  remains  at  St.  John's  Wood,  I  suppose?" 
she  inquired  indifferently,  feeling  in  the  pause  that  ensued 
she  must  say  something. 

"She  remains — yes — with  her  two  old  servants  for  the 
present.     I  believe  her  ultimate  intention  is  to  go  abroad." 

"She  will  not  return  to  Cheshire?" 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  face  ;  there  was  a  momentary 
contraction  of  the  muscles  of  his  mouth, 

"  She  will  not  return  to  Cheshire.  All  her  life  she  will  lie 
under  the  ban  of  murder." 

"And  she  is  innocent?" 

He  looked  up  at  her — a  strange,  hunted,  tortured  sort  of 
look. 

"She  is  innocent." 

As  he  made  the  answer  he  turned  abruptly  away,  Edith 
asked  no  more  questions.  The  secret  of  hi.^  mother's  mur- 
der was  a  secret  she  was  not  to  hear. 

Lady  Helena  did  not  make  her  appearance  at  all  in  the 

lower  rooms,  that  night.     Next  day  at  luncheon  she  came 

down,  and  Edith  was  honestly  shocked  at  the  change  in  her. 

From  a  hale,  nandsonie,  stately,  upright,  elderly  lady,  she 

18 


■ 


290 


HOiy  THE   WEDDING-DAY  BEGAN. 


had  become  a  foeble  old  woman  in  the  past  week.  Her 
step  had  grown  uncertain  ;  her  luuids  trembled  ;  deep  lines  of 
trouble  were  S':ored  on  her  pale  fiice  ;  her  eyes  rarely  wan- 
dered long  from  Iier  nephew's  face.  Her  voice  took  a  softer, 
tenderer  tone  when  she  addressed  him — she  had  always 
loved  him  dearly,  but  never  so  dearly,  it  would  seem,  as 
now. 

The  change  in  Sir  Victor  was  more  in  manner  than  in  look. 
,\  feverish  impatience  and  restlessness  appeared  to  have 
taken  possession  of  him  ;  he  wandered  about  the  house  and 
in  and  out  like  some  restless  gliost.  From  Powyss  Place  to 
Catheron  Royals,  from  Catheron  Royals  to  Powyss  Place, 
he  vibrated  like  a  hunian  pendtihmi.  It  set  Kdith's  nerves 
on  edge  only  to  watch  him.  At  other  periods  a  moody 
gloom  would  fall  upon  him,  then  for  hours  he  sat  brooding, 
brooding,  with  knitted  brows  and  downcast  eyes,  hjst  in  his 
own  dark,  secret  thoughts.  Anon  his  si)irits  would  rise  to 
fever  height,  and  he  would  laugh  and  talk  in  a  wild,  excited 
way  that  fixed  Kdith's  dark,  wondering  eyes  solemnly  on 
his  Hushed  face. 

With  it  all,  in  whatever  mood,  he  could  not  bear  her  out 
of  his  sight.  He  haunted  her  like  her  shadow,  until  it  grew 
almost  intolerable.  He  sat  for  hours,  while  she  worked,  or 
played,  or  read,  not  speaking,  not  stirring — his  eyes  fixed 
upon  her,  and  she,  who  had  never  been  nervous,  grew  hor- 
ribly nervous  under  this  ordeal.  Was  Sir  Victor  losing  his 
wits?  Now  that  his  insane  father  was  dead  and  buried,  did 
he  feel  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  keep  up  the  family  reputa- 
tion and  follow  in  that  father's  footsteps? 

And  the  days  wore  on,  and  the  first  of  October  came 

The  change  in  the  young  baronet  grew  more  marked  v,  ith 
each  day.  He  lost  the  power  to  eat  or  sleep  ;  far  into  the 
night  he  walked  his  room,  as  though  some  horrible  Nemesis 
were  pursuing  him.  He  failed  to  the  very  shadow  of  him- 
self, yet  when  Lady  Helena,  in  fear  and  trembling,  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  arm,  and  falteringly  begged  him  to  see  a  jMiy- 
sician,  he  shook  her  off  with  an  angry  irritability  quite  for- 
eign to  his  usual  gentle  temper,  and  bade  her,  imperiously, 
to  leave  him  alone. 

The  second  of  October  came ;  to-morrow  would  be  the 
wedding-day. 


aOW  THE   WEDDIrTG-DA  Y  BEGAN. 


291 


. 


The  old  feeling  of  vagueness  and  unreality  Had  conic  back 
to  Edith.  Something  would  hajjpen — that  was  the  burden 
of  her  thoughts.  To-morrow  was  the  wecUhng-day,  but  the 
wedding  would  never  take  place.  She  walked  through  the 
glowing,  beautiful  roonis  of  Cathcron  Royals,  through  the 
grounds  and  gardens,  bright  with  gay  autumnal  flowers — a 
home  luxurious  enough  for  a  young  duchess — and  still  that 
feeling  of  luircality  was  there.  A  grand  place,  a  noble  home, 
but  she  would  never  reign  its  mistress.  The  cottage  at  Car- 
narvon had  been  weeks  ago  engaged,  Sir  Victor's  confiden- 
tial servant  already  established  there,  awaiting  the  coming  of 
the  bridal  pair  ;  but  she  felt  she  would  never  see  it.  Up- 
stairs, in  all  their  snowy,  shining  splendor,  the  bridal  robe 
and  veil  lay ;  when  to-morrow  came  would  she  ever  put 
them  on,  she  vaguely  wondered.  And  still  she  was  not  un- 
happy. A  sort  of  apathy  had  taken  possession  of  her  ;  she 
drifted  on  calmly  to  the  end.  What  was  written,  was  wi  itten  ; 
what  would  be,  would  be.  Time  enough  to  wake  from  her 
dream  when  the  time  of  waking  came. 

The  hour  fixed  for  the  ceremony  was  eleven  o'clock  ;  the 
place,  Chesholm  church.  The  bridemaids  would  arrive  at 
ten — the  Earl  of  Wroatmore,  the  father  of  the  Ladies  Gwen- 
doline and  Laura  Drexel,  was  to  give  the  bride  away.  They 
would  return  to  Powyss  Place  and  eat  the  sunii)tuous  break- 
fast— then  off  and  away  to  the  pretty  town  in  North  Wales. 
That  was  the  })rogrannne.  "  When  to-morrow  comes," 
Edith  thinks,  as  she  wanders  about  the  house,  "  will  it  be 
carried  out?" 

It  chanced  that  on  the  bridal  eve  Miss  Darrell  was  at- 
tacked with  headache  and  sore  throat.  She  had  lingered 
heedlessly  out  in  the  rain  the  day  beftjre  (one  of  her  old  bad 
habits  to  escape  from  Sir  Victor,  if  the  truth  must  be  told), 
and  paid  the  natural  penalty  next  day.  It  would  never  do 
to  be  hoarse  as  a  raven  on  one's  wedding-day,  so  Lady 
Helena  insisted  on  a  wet  napkin  round  the  throat,  a  warm 
bath,  gruel,  and  early  bed.  Willingly  enough  the  girl  obeyed 
— too  glad  to  have  this  last  evening  alone.  Innnediately 
after  dinner  she  bade  her  adieux  to  her  bridegroom-elect,  and 
went  away  to  her  own  rooms. 

The  short  October  day  had  long  ago  darkened  down,  the 
curtains  were  drawn,  a  fire  burned,  the  candles  were  lit. 


292 


HOIV  THE    WEDDING-DA  Y  BEGAN. 


ohc  took  the- bath,  the  gruel,  the  wet  napkin,  and  let  herself 
be  tucked  uj)  in  bed. 

"Romantic,"  she  thought,  with  a  laugh  at  herself,  "for  a 
bride." 

I<ady  Helena — was  it  a  i)resentimcnt  of  what  was  so  near  ? 
— lingered  by  her  side  long  that  evening,  ifnd,  at  parting,  for 
the  fust  time  took  her  in  her  arms  and  kiss(.;d  her, 

"Good  night,  my  child,"  the  tender,  tremulous  tones  said. 
"  I  pray  you  make  him  happy — I  pray  that  he  may  nsake 
you." 

She  lingered  yet  a  little  longer — her  heart  seemed  full,  her 
eyes  were  shining  through  tears.  Words  seemed  trembling 
on  her  lips — words  she  had  not  courage  to  say.  Vox  l^iith, 
surprised  and  moved,  she  put  her  arms  round  the  kind  old 
neck,  and  laid  her  face  for  a  moment  on  the  genial  old 
bosom. 

"  I  will  try,"  she  whispered,  "  dear,  kind  T-ady  Helena — 
indeed  1  will  try  to  be  a  good  and  flvithful  wife." 

One  last  kiss,  tlien  they  parted  ;  the  door  closed  behind 
her,  and  Edith  was  alone. 

She  lay  as  usual,  high  up  among  the  billowy  pillows,  her 
hands  clasped  above  her  head, .her  dark,  dreanung  eyes 
fixed  on  the  fire.  She  looked  as  though  she  were  thinking, 
but  she  was  not.  Her  mind  was  simply  a  blank.  She  was 
vaguely  and  idly  watching  the  llickcring  shadows  cast  by  the 
firelight  on  the  wall,  the  gleam  of  yellow  moonlight  shimmer- 
ing through  the  curtains  ;  listening  to  the  faint  sighing  of  the 
night  wind,  the  ticking  of  the  little  fanciful  clock,  to  the 
pretty  plaintive  tunes  it  played  before  it  struck  the  hours. 
Nine,  ten,  eleven — she  heard  them  all,  as  she  lay  there,  broad 
awake,  neitiier  thinking  nor  stirring. 

Her  maid  came  in  for  her  last  orders  ;  she  bade  the  girl 
good-night,  and  told  her  to  go  to  bed — she  wanted  nothing 
more.  Then  again  she  was  alone.  JUit  now  a  restlessness, 
as  little  to  be  understood  as  her  former  listless  ajjathy,  took 
hold  of  her.  .She  could  not  lie  there  and  sleej) ;  she  could 
not  lie  there  awake.  As  the  clock  chimed  twelve,  she 
started  up  in  bed  in  a  sudden  panic.  Twelve  !  A  new  day 
— her  wedding-day  I 

Impossible  to  lie  there  quiet  any  longer.  She  sprang  up, 
locked  her  door,  and  began,  in  her  long,  white  night-robe, 


HOW  THE   WEDDING-DAY  BEGAN. 


293 


pacing  lip  and  clown.  So  another  hour  passed.  One  I 
One  from  the  little  Swiss  musical  clock ;  one,  solemn  and 
sombre,  from  the  big  clock  up  in  the  tower.  Then  she 
stopped — stoi)ped  in  thou^'ht  ;  then  she  walked  to  one  of 
her  boxes,  and  took  out  a  wrilingcase,  always  kept  locked. 
With  a  key  attacl  ■  ,'  to  her  neck  she  opened  it,  seated  her- 
self before  a  table,  i  1  drew  forth  a  package  of  letters  and, 
a  picture.  The  picUire  was  the  handsome  i)hotographed 
face  of  Charley  Siuartj  the  letters  the  letters  he  had  written/ 
her  to  San(ly"i)int. 

She  begin  with  the  first,  and  read  it  slowly  through — then 
the  next,  and  so  on  to  the  end.  There  were  over  a  doi,en 
in  all,  and  tolerably  lengtiiy.  As  she  finished  and  Iblded  up 
the  last,  she  took  up  the  picture  and  gazed  at  it  long  and 
earneslly,  with  a  strangely  dark,  intent  look.  How  Innd- 
some  he  wis !  how  well  ho  photographed !  that  was  her 
thought.  She  had  seen  him  so  often,  with  just  this  cxpr  *s- 
sion,  looking  at  her.  His  pleasant,  lazy,  half-sarcastic  voice 
was  in  her  ear,  saying  something  coolly  impertinent — his 
gray,  lulf-smiling,  half-cynical  eyes  were  looking  life-like  up 
at  her.  What  was  he  doing  now?  Sleeping  cahnly,  no 
doubt — she  forgotten  as  she  deserved  to  be.  When  to- 
morrow came,  would  he  by  any  chance  remember  it  was  her 
wedding-day,  and  would  the  remembrance  cost  him  a  pang? 
She  laughed  at  herself  for  the  sentimental  question — Charley 
Stuart  feel  a  pang  for  her,  or  any  other  earthly  woman  ?  No, 
he  was  immerse  '  in  business,  no  doubt,  head  and  ears,  soul 
and  body  ;  absorbed  in  dollars  and  cents,  and  retrieving  in 
some  way  his  fallen  fortunes — Edith  Darrell  dismissed  con- 
temptuously, as  a  cold-blooded  jilt,  from  his  memory.  Well, 
so  she  had  willed  it — she  had  no  right  to  complain.  With, 
a  stt.-ady  hand  she  tied  up  the  letters  and  replaced  them  in 
the  desk.  The  picture  followed.  "  Good-by,  Charley,"  she 
said,  with  a  sort  of  smile.  She  could  no  more  have  de- 
stroyed those  souvenirs  of  the  past  than  she  could  have  cut 
o(f  her  right  hand.  Wrong,  you  say,  and  shake  your  head. 
Wrong,  of  course  ;  but  when  has  Edith  Darrell  done  right  — 
when  have  1  ])ictured  her  to  you  in  any  very  favorable  light  ? 
As  long  as  she  lived,  and  was  Sir  Victor's  wife,  she  would 
never  look  at  them  again,  but  destroy  them — no,  she  could 
not  do  that. 


294 


ffOW  THE   WEDDING-DAY  ENDED. 


Six !  As  she  closed  and  locked  the  writing-case  the  hour 
struck ;  a  broad,  bright  sunburst  flashed  in  and  filled  the 
room  with  yellow  glory.  The  sun  had  risen  cloudless  and 
brilliant  at  last  on  her  wedding-day. 


CHAPTER  XX r. 


HOW   THE    WEDDING-DAY    ENDED. 


I  HE  replaced  the  desk  in  the  trunk,  and,  walking  to 
the  window,  drew  back  the  curtain  and  looked  out. 
Over  emerald  lawn  and  coppice,  tall  trees  and  bril- 
liant flowers,  the  October  sun  shone  gloriously.  No 
fairer  day  ever  smiled  upon  old  earth.  She  stood  for  an  in- 
stant— then  turned  slowly  away  and  walked  over  to  a  mirror 
— had  her  night's  vigil  nnde  her  lock  wan  and  sallow?  she 
wondered.  No — she  looked  much  as  usual  —  a  thought 
paler,  perhaps,  but  it  is  ai)propriate  for  brides  to  look  pale. 
No  use  thinking  of  a  morning  nap  under  the  circumstances 
— she  would  sit  down  by  the  window  and  wait  for  them  to 
come.  She  could  hear  the  household  astir  already — she 
could  even  see  Sir  Victor,  away  in  the  distance,  taking  his 
morning  walk.  How  singularly  haggard  and  wan  he  looked, 
like  anything  you  please  except  a  happy  bridegroom  about 
to  marry  the  lady  he  loves  above  all  on  earth.  She  watched 
him  with  a  gravely  thoughtful  face,  until  at  last  he  disap- 
peared from  view  among  the  trees. 

Seven  o'clock  !  ICight  o'clock  !  Edith's  respite  was  ended, 
her  solitude  invaded  at  last.  There  was  a  tap  at  the  door, 
and  Lady  Helena,  followed  by  Miss  Darrell's  maid,  entered. 

Had  they  all  kept  vigil  ?  Her  ladyship,  in  the  pitiless, 
searching  glare  of  the  morning  sun,  certainly  looked  much 
more  like  it  than  the  quiet  bride.  She  was  pale,  nervous, 
agitated  beyond  anything  the  girl  had  ever  seen. 

"  How  had  Edith  slept  ?  How  was  her  cold  ?  How  did 
she  feel  ?  " 

"Never  better,"  Miss  Darrell  responded  smilingly. 
"  The  sore  throat  and  headache  arc  quite  gone,  and  I  am 


BBaan 


HOW  THE   WEDDING-DA  Y  ENDED. 


295 


.  \ 


ready  to  do  justice  to  the  nice  breakfast  which  I  see  Emily 
has  brought." 

She  sat  down  to  it — chocolate,  rolls,  an  omelette,  and  a 
savory  little  bird,  with  excellent  and  unromantic  appetite. 
Then  the  service  was  cleared  away,  and  the  real  business  of 
the  day  began.  She  was  under  the  hands  of  her  maid,  deep 
in  the  mysteries  of  tiie  wedding-toilette. 

At  ten  cauie  the  bridemaids,  a  brilliant  bevy,  in  sweep- 
ing trains,  walking  visions  of  silk,  tulle,  laces,  perfume,  and 
flowers.  At  half-past  ten  Miss  Darrell,  "queen  rose  of  tlie 
rose-bud  garden  of  girls,"  stood  in  their  midst,  ready  for  the 
altar. 

She  looked  beautiful.  It  is  an  understood  thing  that  all 
brides,  whatever  their  appearance  on  the  ordinary  occasions 
of  life,  look  beautiful  on  this  day  of  days.  Kdilh  Darrell 
had  never  looked  so  stately,  so  queenly,  so  handsome  in  her 
life.  Just  a  thouglit  pale,  but  not  unbecomingly  so — the 
rich,  glistening  white  silk  sweeping  far  l)chind  her,  set  off 
well  the  fme  figure,  which  it  fitted  without  flaw.  The  dark, 
proud  face  shone  like  a  star  from  the  misty  folds  of  the 
bridal  veil ;  the  legendary  orange  blossoms  crowned  the 
rich,  dark  hair ;  on  neck,  ears,  and  arms  glimmered  a  price- 
less parure  of  pearls,  the  gift,  like  the  dress  and  veil,  of 
Lady  Helena.  A  fragrant  bouquet  of  s|)Otless  white  had 
been  sent  up  by  the  bridegroom.  At  a  quarter  of  eleven 
she  entered  the  carriage  and  was  driven  away  to  the  church. 

As  she  lay  back,  and  looked  dreamily  out,  the  mellow 
October  sunshine  lighting  the  scene,  the  joy-bells  clashing, 
the  listles"-  "'>athy  of  the  i)ast  few  days  took  her  again.  She 
took  note  of  the  trifles  about  her — her  mind  rejected  all 
else.  How  yellow  were  the  fields  of  stubble,  how  pictur- 
esque, gilded  in  the  sunshine,  the  village  of  Chcsholm 
looked.  How  glowing  and  rosy  tlie  faces  of  the  ])eople  who 
flocked  out  in  t!. v..:- holiday  best  to  gaze  at  tlie  bridal  pageant. 
Was  it  health  and  hai)piness,  or  soaj)  and  water  only  ?  won- 
dered the  bride.  These  were  her  wandering  thoughts — these 
alone. 

They  reached  the  little  chiuch.  All  tbe  way  from  the 
carriage  to  the  stone  porch  the  charity  children  strewed  her 
path  with  flowers,  and  sung  (out  of  tune)  a  bridal  anthem. 
She  smiled  down  upon  their  vulgar,  admiring  little  faces  as 


296 


HOW  THE   WEDDING-DA  V  ENDED. 


she  went  by  on  the  Earl  of  VVroaiinore's  arm.  The  church 
was  filled.  Was  seeing  her  married  worth  al!  tliis  trouble  to 
these  good  people,  she  wondered,  as  slie  walked  up  the 
aisle,  still  on  the  arm  of  the  Right  Honorable  the  £)arl  of 
Wroatmore. 

There  was,  of  course,  a  large  tlirong  of  invited  guests. 
Lady  Helena  was  there  in  jjale,  llowing  silks,  the  bride- 
maids,  a  billowy  crowd  of  wliite-plumaged  birds,  and  the 
bridegroom,  with  a  face  whiter  than  the  white  waistcoat, 
standing  waiting  for  his  bride.  And  there,  in  surplice,  book 
in  hand,  stood  the  rector  of  Chesholm  and  his  curate,  ready 
to  tie  the  untieable  knot. 

A  low,  hushed  murmur  ran  through  tlic  cliurch  at  sight  of 
the  silver-shining  figure  of  the  bride.  How  handsome,  how 
stately,  how  perfectly  self-possessed  and  calm.  Truly,  if 
beauty  and  high-bred  repose  of  manner  be  any  palliation  of 
low  birth  and  obscurity,  this  American  young  lady  had  it. 

An  instant  passes — she  is  kneeling  by  Sir  Victor  Cathe- 
ron's  side.  "  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this 
man  ?  "  say  the  urbane  tones  of  the  rector  of  Chesholm,  and 
the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Wroatmore  comes  forward 
•on  two  rickety  old  legs  and  gives  her.  "If  any  one  here 
present  knows  any  just  cause  or  impediment  why  this  man 
should  not  be  married  to  this  woman,  I  charge  him,"  etc.,  but 
no  one  knows.  The  solemn  words  go  on.  "  Wilt  thou  take 
Edith  Darrell  to  be  thy  wedded  wife  ?  "  "I  will,"  Sir  Vic- 
tor Catheron  responds,  but  in  broken,  inarticulate  tones.  It 
is  the  bride's  turn.  "I  will!"  the  clear,*firm  voice  is  per- 
fectly audible  in  the  almost  painfully  intense  stillness.  The 
ring  slips  over  her  finger  ;  she  watches  it  curiously.  "  I  pro- 
nounce ye  man  and  wife,"  says  the  rector.  "  What  God 
hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

It  is  all  over ;  she  is  I^ady  Catheron,  and  nothing  has 
hapi)ened. 

They  enter  the  vestry,  they  sign  their  names  in  the  regis- 
ter, their  friends  flock  round  to  shake  hands,  and  kiss,  and 
congratulate.  And  Edith  smiles  through  it  all,  and  Sir  Vic- 
tor keeps  that  white,  haggard,  unsmiling  face.  It  is  a  curi- 
ous fancy,  but,  if  it  were  not  so  utterly  absurd,  Edith  would 
think  he  looked  at  her  as  though  he  were  afraid  of  her. 

On  her  husband's  arm — her  husband's  I — she  walks  down 


HOW  THE   WEDDING-DAY  ENDED. 


297 


■ 


the  aisle  and  out  of  the  church.  Tliey  enter  the  carriages, 
and  are  driven  liack  to  Powyss  Place.  They  sit  down  to 
breakfast — every  fcxcc  looks  happy  and  bright,  except  the 
face  that  should  look  happiest  and  brightest  of  all — the 
bridegroom's.  He  seems  to  mike  a  great  effort  to  be  cheer- 
ful and  at  ease ;  it  is  a  failure.  He  tries  to  return  thanks 
in  a  speech  ;  it  is  a  greater  failure  still.  An  awkward  silence 
and  constraint  creep  over  tiie'  party.  What  is  the  matter 
with  Sir  Victor?  All  eyes  are  fixed  curiously  upon  him. 
Surely  not  repenting  his  mesalliance  so  speedily.  It  is  a 
r(;lief  to  everybody  wlien  the  breakfast  ends,  and  the  bride 
goes  upstairs  to  change  her  dress. 

The  young  baronet  has  engagc^'i  a  special  train  to  take 
them  into  Wales.  The  new-made  T-ady  Catheron  changes 
her  shining  bridal  robes  for  a  charming  travelling  costume  of 
l)alest  gray,  with  a  gossamer  veil  of  the  same  shade.  She 
looks  as  handsome  in  it  as  in  the  other,  and  her  cool  calm 
is  a  marvel  to  all  beholders.  She  shakes  hands  gayly  with 
their  friends  and  guests  ;  a  smile  is  on  her  face  as  she  takes 

Old 
ladies  wave  theif 
handkerchiefs,  gentlemen  call  good-by.  She  leans  forward 
and  waves  her  gray-gloved  hand  in  return — the  cloudless 
smile  on  the  beautiful  face  to  the  last.  So  they  see  her — 
as  not  one  of  all  wlio  stand  there  will  ever  see  her  on  earth 


her  bridegroom's  arm  and  enters  the  waiting  carriage, 
shoes  in  a  shower  are  Hung  after  them  ; 


The  house,  the  wedding-guests  are  out  of  sight — the  car- 
liage  rolls  through  the  gates  of  Powyss  Place.  She  falls 
back  and  looks  out.  Tiiey  are  ilying  along  Chesholm  high 
street;  the  tenantry  shout  lustily;  the  joy-bells  still  clash 
forth.  Now  they  are  at  the  station — ten  minutes  nnie,  and, 
as  fast  as  steam  can  convey  them,  they  are  whirling  into 
Wales.  And  all  this  time  bride  and  bridegroom  have  not 
exchanged  a  word ! 

That  curious  Hincy  of  Editii's  has  come  back — surely  Sir 
Victor  is  afraid  of  her.  How  strangely  he  looks — how 
strangely  he  keeps  aloof — how  strangely  he  is  silent — how 
fixedly  he  gazes  out  of  the  railway  carriage  window — any- 
where but  at  her !  Has  his  brain  turned  ?  she  wonders ; 
is  Sir  Victor  going  mad  ? 

She  makes  no  attempt  to  arouse  him ;  let  him  be  silent 
13* 


298 


JlOfV  THE   WEDDING-DA  V  ENDED. 


if  he  will ;  she  rather  prefers  it,  indeed.  She  sits  and  looks 
sociably  out  of  the  opposite  window  at  tlie  bright,  flying 
landscape,  steeped  in  the  amber  glitter  of  the  October 
afternoon  sun. 

She  looks  across  at  the  man  she  has  married — did  ever 
mortal  man  before  on  his  wedding-day  wear  such  a  stony 
face  as  that  ?  And  yet  he  has  married  her  for  love — for  love 
alone.  Was  ever  another  bridal  journey  performed  like  this  ^ 
— in  profound  gravity  and  silence  on  both  sides  ?  she  won- 
ders, half-inclined  to  laugh.  She  looks  down  at  her  shining 
wedding-ring — is  it  a  circlet  that  means  nothing  ?  How  is 
her  life  to  go  on  after  tiiis  grewsome  wedding-day? 

They  reach  Wales.  Tlie  sun  is  setting  redly  over 
mountains  and  sea.  The  carriage  is  awaiting  them  ;  she 
enters,  and  lies  back  wearily  with  closed  eyes.  She  is 
dead  tired  and  depressed  ;  she  is  beginning  to  feel  the  want 
of  last  night's  sleep,  and  in  a  weary  way  is  glad  when  the 
Carnarvon  cottage  is  reached.  Sir  Victor's  man,  my  lady's 
maid,  and  two  Welch  servants  came  forth  to  meet  them ; 
and  on  Sir  Victor's  arm  she  enters  the  house. 

She  goes  at  once  to  her  dressing  room,  to  rest,  to  bathe 
her  f^xce,  and  remove  her  wraps,  performing  those  duties 
herself,  and  dismissing  her  maid..  As  she  and  Sir  Victor 
separate,  he  mutters  some  half-incoherent  words— he  will 
take  a  walk  and  smoke  a  cigar  before  dinner,  while  she  is 
resting.  He  is  gone  even  while  he  says  it,  and  she  is 
alone. 

She  removes  her  gloves,  hat,  and  jacket,  bathes  her  face, 
and  descends  to  the  little  cottage  drawing-room.  It  is  quite 
deserted — sleepy  silence  everywhere  reigns.  Sh-  .irows 
herself  into  an  easy-chair  beside  the  open  window,  and  looks 
listlessly  out.  Ruby,  and  purple,  and  golden,  the  sun  is 
setting  in  a  radiant  sky — the  yellow  sea  creeps  up  on  silver 
sands — old  Carnarvon  Castle  gleams  and  glows  in  the 
rainbow  light  like  a  fairy  palace.  It  is  unutterably  beauti- 
ful, unutterably  drowsy  and  dull.  And,  while  she  thinks  it, 
her  heavy  eyelids  sway  and  fall,  htr  head  sinks  back,  and 
Edith  falls  fi.ist  asleep. 

Fast  asleep  ;  and  a  mile  away.  Sir  Victor  Catheron  paces 
up  and  down  a  strip  of  tawny  sand,  the  sea  lapping  softly  at 
his  feet,  the  birds  singing  in  the  branches,  not  a  human  soul 


< 


HOW  THE   WEDDING-DAY  ENDED. 


299 


'v 


., 


far  or  near.  He  is  not  smoking  that  before-dinner  cigar — 
he  is  striding  up  and  down  more  like  an  escaped  Bedlamite 
than  anything  else.  His  hat  is  drawn  over  his  eyes,  his 
brows  are  knit,  his  lijjs  set  tigiit,  his  hands  are  clenclTed. 
Presently  he  pauses,  leans  against  a  tree,  and  looks,  with 
eyes  full  of  some  haggard,  horrible  despair,  out  over  the  red 
light  on  sea  and  sky.  And,  as  lie  looks,  he  falls  down  sud- 
denly, as  though  some  inspiration  had  seized  him,  upon  his 
knees,  and  lifts  his  clasped  hands  to  that  radiant  sk)".  A 
prayer,  that  seems  fren/icd  in  its  agonized  intensity,  bursts 
from  his  lips — the  sleeping  sea,  tiie  twittering  birds,  the 
rustling  leaves,  and  He  v.'ho  has  made  them,  alone  are  to 
hear.  Then  he  falls  forward  on  his  face,  and  lies  like  a 
stone. 

Is  he  mad?  Surely  no  sane  man  ever  acted,  or  looked, 
or  spoke  like  this.  He  lies  so — [)rostrate,  motionless — for* 
upward  of  an  hour,  then  slowly  and  heavily  he  rises.  His 
face  is  calmer  now  ;  it  is  the  face  of  a  man  who  has  fought 
some  desperate  hght,  ana  gained  some  desperate  victory — 
one  of  those  victories  more  cruel  than  death. 

He  turns  and  goes  hence.  He  crashes  through  the  tall, 
dewy  grass,  his  white  fiice  set  in  a  look  of  iron  resolution. 
He  is  ghastly  beyond  all  telling;  dead  and  in  his  coffin  he 
will  hardly  look  more  death  like.  He  reache;;  the  cottage, 
and  tlie  hist  sight  upon  which  his  eyes  rest  is  his  bride, 
peacefully  asleep  in  the  chair  by  the  still  open  window.  She 
looks  lovely  in  her  slumber,  and  peaceful  as  a  litde  child — 
no  very  terrible  sight  surely.  lUit  as  his  eyes  fall  upon  her, 
he  recoils  in  some  great  horror,  as  a  man  may  who  has  re- 
ceived a  blinding  blow. 

"  Asleep  !  "  his  pale  lips  whisper  ;  "  asleep — as  she  was  !  " 

He  stands  spell-bound  for  a  moment — then  he  breaks 
away  headlong.  He  makes  his  way  to  the  dining-room. 
The  table,  all  bright  with  damask,  silver,  crystal,  and  cut 
flowers,  stands  spread  for  dinner.  He  takes  from  his 
pocket  a  note-book  and  pencil,  and,  still  standing,  writes 
rapidly  down  one  page.  Without  reading,  he  folds  and 
seals  the  sheet,  and  slowly  and  with  dragging  steps  returns 
to  the  room  where  Edith  sleeps.  On  the  threshold  he  lin- 
gers— he  seems  afraid — afraid  to  approach.  But  he  does 
approach  at  last.     He  places  the  note  he  has  written  on  a 


3CO 


HOW  THE   WEDDING-DAY  ENDED. 


table,  he  draws  near  his  sleeping  bride,  lie  kneels  down 
and  kisses  her  hands,  her  dress,  her  hair.  His  haggard 
eyes  burn  on  her  face,  their  mesmeric  light  disturbs  lier. 
She  murmurs  and  itiovcs  restlessly  in  lier  sleep.  In  an  in- 
stant he  is  on  his  feet ;  in  another,  he  is  out  of  the  room  and 
the  house;  in  another,  the  deei)ening  twilight  takes  hitii,  and 
he  is  gone. 

A  train  an  hour  later  passes  through  Carnarvon  on  its 
way  to  London.  One  passenger  alone  awaits  it  at  the 
station — one  passenger  who  enters  an  emi)ty  first-clasr.  com- 
partment and  disappears.  Then  it  goes  shrieking  on  its  way, 
bearing  witli  it  to  London  the  bridegroom,  Sir  Victor  Cath- 
eron. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 


THE    DAY   AFTER. 


i|HE  last  red  ray  of  the  sunsrt  had  faded,  the  silver 
stars  were  out,  tlie  yellow  moon  shone  serenely 
over  land  and  sea,  before  Kdith  awoke — awoke 
with  a  suiile  on  her  lips  from  a  Jream  o^  Chirley. 

"Do  go  away — don't  tease,"  she  was  munnunng  half 
smilingly,  half  petulantly — the  words  she  had  spoken  lo  ham 
a  hundred  times.  She  was  back  in  Sandypoint,  he  besiiifii 
her,  living  over  the  old  days,  gone  forever.  She  awoke  lo 
see  the  tawny  moonshine  streauiing  in,  to  iiear  the  soft 
whispers  of  the  night  wind,  the  soft,  sleepy  lap  of  the  sea  oa 
the  sands,  and  to  realize,  with  a  thrill  and  a  shock,  she  was 
Sir  Victor  Cathcron's  wife. 

His  wife  !  This  was  her  wedding-day.  Even  in  dreams 
Charley  must  come  to  her  no  more. 

She  rose  up,  slightly  chilled  from  sleeping  in  the  evening 
air,  and  shivering,  partly  with  that  chill,  partly  with  a  fet:!- 
ing  she  did  not  care  to  defme.  The  drearn  of  her  life's  am- 
bition was  realized  in  its  fullest ;  she,  Edith  Darrell,  was 
"my  lady — a  baronet's  bride  ;"  the  vista  of  her  life  spread 
before  her  in  glittering  splendor  ;  and  yet  her  heart  lay  like 


THE  DA  Y  AFTER. 


\ 


W, 


301 


lead  in  her  bosom.     In  this  hour  she  was  afraid  of  herself, 
afraid  of  him. 

But  where  was  he  ? 

She  looked  round  the  room,  half  in  shadow,  half  in  bril- 
liant moonlight.  No,  he  was  not  there.  Had  he  returned 
from  his  stroll  ?  She  took  out  her  watch,  A  quarter  of 
seven — of  course  he  had.  He  was  awaiting  her,  no  doubt, 
impatient  for  his  dinner,  in  the  dining-room.  She  would 
make  some  change  in  her  dress  and  join  him  there.  She 
went  up  to  her  dressing  room  and  lit  the  candles  herself. 
Slie  smoothed  her  ruffled  hair,  added  a  ribbon  and  a  jewel 
or  two,  and  then  went  back  to  the  drawing-room.  All  un- 
noticed, in  th(?  shad>  vs,  the  letter  for  her  lay  on  the  table. 
She  sat  down  and  rang  the  bell.  Jamison,  the  confidential 
servant,  appeared. 

"Has  Sir  Victor  returned  from  his  walk,  Jamison?  Is 
he  in  the  dining-room  ?  " 

ivii.  Jamison's  well-bred  eyes  looked  in  astonishment  at 
the  speaker,  then  around  the  room.  Mr.  Jamison's  wooden 
countenance  looked  stolid  surprise. 

"Sir  Victor,  my  lady — I — thought  Sir  Victor  was  here, 
my  lady." 

"  Sir  Victor  has  not  been  here  since  half  an  hour  after 
our  arrival.  He  went  out  for  a  walk,  as  you  very  well 
know.     I  ask  you  if  ho  has  returned." 

"  Sir  Victor  returned  more  than  an  hour  ago,  my  lady. 
I  saw  him  myself.  You  were  aslee[),  my  lady,  by  ihe  win- 
dow as  he  came  up.  He  went  into  the  dining-room  and 
wrote  a  letter  ;  I  saw  it  in  his  hand.  And  then,  my  lady, 
he  came  in  here." 

The  man  paused,  and  again  peered  around  the  room. 
Edith  listened  in  growing  surprise. 

"  I  thought  he  was  here  still,  my  lady,  so  did  Hemily,  or 
we  would  have  taken  the  liberty  of  hentering  and  closing 
the  window.  We  was  sure  he  was  here.  He  suttingly 
hentered  with  the  letter  in  his  'and.     It's  very  hodd." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.     Again  Mr  Jamison — 

"If  your  ladyship  will  hallow,  I  will  light  the  candles  here, 
and  then  go  and  hascertain  wiiether  Sir  Victor  is  in  hany  of 
the  bother  rooms." 

She  made  an  affirmative  gesture,  and  returned  to  the 


302 


THE  DA  Y  AFTER. 


./ 


window.  The  man  lit  the  candles ;  a  second  after  an  ex- 
clamation startled  her. 

"The  note,  my  lady  !     Here  it  is." 

It  lay  upon  the  table  ;  she  walked  over  and  took  it  iip. 
In  Sir  Victor's  hand,  and  addressed  to  herself!  What  did 
this  mean  ?  She  stood  looking  at  it  a  moment — then  she 
turned  to  Jamison. 

"  That  will  do,"  she  said  brieily ;  *'  if  I  want  you  I  will 
ring." 

The  man  bowed  and  left  the  room.  She  stood  still,  hold- 
ing the  unopened  note,  strangely  reluctant  to  break  the 
seal.  What  did  Sir  Victor  mean  by  absenting  himself  and 
writing  her  a  note?  With  an  effort  she  aroused  herself  at 
last,  and  tore  it  open.  It  was  strangely  scrdwled,  the  writ- 
ing half  illegible  ;  slowly  and  with  difficulty  she  made  it  out. 
This  was  what  she  read  : 


y    • 


"  For  Heaven's  sake,  pity  me — for  Heaven's  sake,  par- 
don me.  We  shall  never  meet  more  !  O  beloved ! 
believe  that  I  love  you,  believe  that  I  never  loved  you  half 
so  well  as  now,  when  I  leave  you  forever.  If  I  loved  you 
less  I  might  dare  to  stay.  But  I  dare  not.  I  can  tell  you 
no  more — a  promise  to  the  living  and  the  dead  binds  me. 
A  dreadful  secret  of  sin,  and  shame,  and  guilt,  is  involved. 
Go  to  Lady  Helena.  My  love— my  bride — my  heart  is 
breaking  as  I  write  the  word — the  cruel  word  that  must  be 
written — farewell.  I  have  but  one  prayer  in  my  heart — but 
one  wish  in  my  soul — that  my  life  may  be  a  short  one. 

"  Victor." 


No  more.  So,  in  short,  incoherent,  disconnected  sen- 
tences, this  incomprehensible  letter  began  and  ended.  She 
stood  stunned,  bewildered,  dazed,  holding  it,  gazing  at  it 
blankly.  Was  she  asleep  ?  Was  this  a  dream  ?  Was  Sir 
Victor  playing  some  ghastly  kind  of  practical  joke,  or — 
had  Sir  Victor  all  of  a  sudden  gone  wholly  and  entirely 
mad?  I 

She  shrank  from  the  last  thought. — but  the  dim  possibility 
that  it  might  be  true  calmed  her.  She  sat  down,  hardly 
knowing  what  she  was  doing,  and  read  the  letter  again. 
Yes,  surely,  surely  she  was  right.     Sir  Victor  had  gone  mad  I 


THE  DAY  AFTER. 


303 


Madness  was  hereditary  in  his  family — had  it  come  to  him 
on  his  wedding-day  of  all  days  ?  On  his  wedding-day  the 
last  renimant  of  reason  had  deserted  him,  and  he  had  de- 
serted her.  She  sat  quite  still, — the  light  of  the  candles  fall- 
ing ii])on  her,  upon  the  fatal  letter,— tr)ing  to  steady  herself, 
trying  to  think.  She  read  it  again  and  again  ;  surely  no 
sane  man  ever  wrote  such  a  lettor  as  this.  "A  dreadful 
secret  of  sin,  and  shame,  and  guilt,  is  involved."  Did  that  • 
dreadful  secret  mean  the  secret  of  his  niotiier's  death  ?  I'.ut 
why  should  that  cause  him  to  leave  her  ?  She  knew  all 
about  it  already.  What  frightful  revelation  had  been  made 
to  him  on  his  father's  dying  bed  ?  He  had  never  been  the 
same  man  since.  An  idea  (lashed  across  her  brain — dread- 
ful and  unnatural  enough  in  all  conscience — but  why  should 
even  that,  supposing  her  suspicions  to  be  true,  cause  him  to 
leave  her?  "  If  I  loved  y  ui  less,  I  might  dare  to  stay  with 
you."  What  rhodomontade  was  this?  Men  prove  their 
love  by  living  with  the  >vomen  they  niarr)',  not  by  deserting 
them.  Oh,  he  was  mad,  mad,  mad — not  a  doubt  of  that 
could  remain. 

Her  thoughts  went  back  over  the  past  two  weeks — to  the 
change  in  him  ever  since  his  father's  death.  There  had  been 
times  when  he  had  visibly  shrunk  from  her,  when  he  had 
seemed  absolutely  afraid  of  her.  Slie  had  doubted  it  then — 
she  knew  it  now.  It  was  the  dawning  of  his  insanity — the 
family  taint  breaking  forth.  His  father's  delusion  had  been 
to  shut  hiriiself  up,  to  give  out  that  he  was  dead — the  son's 
was  to  desert  his  bride  on  their  bridal  day  forever.  For- 
ever I  the  letter  said  so.  Again,  and  still  again,  she  read  it. 
Very  strangely  she  looked,  the  waxlights  flickering  on  her 
pale,  rigid  young  fixce,  her  compressed  lips  set  in  ouv,  'i^ht 
line — on  her  soft  pearl  gray  silk,  with  its  point  lace  collar 
and  diamond  star.  A  bride,  alone,  forsaken,  on  her  wed- 
ding-day ! 

How  strange  it  all  was  !  The  thought  came  to  her  :  was 
it  retributive  justice  pursuing  her  for  having  bartered  herself 
for  rank  ?  And  yet  girls  as  good  and  better  than  she,  did  it 
every  day.  She  rose  and  began  jiacing  up  and  down  the 
lloor.  What  should  she  do  ?  "Go  back  to  Lady  Helena," 
said  the  letter.  Go  back  !  cast  off,  deserted — she,  who  only 
at   noon  to-day  had   left  them  a  radiant   bride !      As  she 


304 


THE  DA  Y  AFTER. 


thought  it,  a  feeling  of  absolute  hatred  for  the  man  she  had 
married  came  into  her  heart.  Sane  or  mad  she  would  hate 
him  now,  all  the  rest  of  her  life. 

The  hours  were  creeping  on — two  had  j)asscd  since  she 
had  sent  Jamison  out  of  her  room.  What  were  they  think- 
ing of  her,  those  keen-sighted,  gossiping  servants?  what 
would  they  think  and  say  when  she  told  them  '■'  ■  Victor 
would  return  no  more? — that  she  was  going  bacK  to  Che- 
shire alone  to-moriow  morning?  There  was  no  help  for  it. 
There  was  resolute  blood  in  the  girl's  veins  ;  she  walked 
over  to  the  bell,  rang  it,  her  head  erect,  her  eyes  bright, 
only  her  lips  still  set  in  that  tight,  unpleasant  line. 

Mr.  Jamison,  grave  and  respectful,  his  burning  curiosity 
diplomatically  hidden,  answered. 

"Jamison,"  the  young  lady  said,  her  tones  clear  and  calm, 
looking  the  man  straight  in  the  eyes,  "your  master  has  been 
obliged  to  leave  Wales  suddenly,  and  will  not  return.  Yoii 
may  spend  the  night  in  i)acking  up.  To-morrow,  by  the 
earliest  train,  I  return  to  Cheshire." 

"  Yes,  me  lady." 

Not  a  muscle  of  Jamison's  face  moved — not  a  vestige  of 
surprise  or  any  other  earthly  emotion  was  visible  in  his 
smooth-shaven  face.  If  she  had  said,  "  To-morrow  by  the 
earliest  train  I  shall  take  a  trip  to  the  moon,"  Mr.  Jamison 
would  have  bowed  and  said,  "Yes,  me  lady,"  in  precisely  the 
same  tone. 

"  Is  dinner  served?"  his  young  mistress  asked,  looking  at 
her  watch.  "If  not,  serve  immediately.  I  shall  be  there 
in  two  minutes." 

She  kept  her  word.  With  that  light  in  her  eyes,  that  pale 
composure  on  her  face,  she  swept  into  the  dining-room,  and 
took  her  place  at  the  glittering  table.  Jamison  waited  upon 
her — watching  her,  of  course,  as  a  cat  a  mouse. 

"She  took  her  soup  and  fish,  her  slice  of  pheasant  and 
her  jelly,  I  do  assure  you,  just  the  same  as  hever,  Hemily," 
he  related  afterward  to  ihe  lady's  maid  ;  "  but  her  face  was 
whiter  than  the  tablecloth,  and  her  eyes  had  a  look  in  them 
I'd  rather  master  would  face  than  me.  She's  one  of  the  'igh- 
stepping  sort,  depend  upon  it,  and  quiet  as  she  takes  it  now, 
there'll  be  the  deuce  and  all  to  pay  one  of  these  days." 

She  rose  at  last  and  went  back  to  the  drawing-room. 


M... 


THG  DA  Y  AFTER. 


30s 


How  brilliantly  the  moon  shone  on  the  sleeping  sea  ;  how 
fantastic  tlie  town  anil  castle  looked  in  the  loinantic  lii^lit. 
She  stood  hy  the  window  lung,  looking  out.  No  thought  of 
synipatliy  for  him — of  trying  to  iuid  him  out  on  the  morrow 
— entered  her  mind,  lie  had  deserted  her;  sane  or  mad, 
that  was  enough  for  the  present  to  know. 

She  took  out  a  [jurse,  that  f.iiries  and  gold  dollars  alone 
MiiglU  have  entered,  and  looked  at  its  contents.  By  sheer 
good  luck  and  chance,  it  contained  three  or  four  sovereigns 
— more  than  sufficient  for  the  return  journey.  To-morrow 
morning  she  would  go  back  to  Powyss  Place  and  tell  Lady 
Helena  ;  after  that — 

Her  thoughts  broke — to-night  she  could  not  look  beyond. 
The  ntisery,  the  shame,  the  horrible  scandal,  the  lonehness, 
the  whole  wreck  of  life  that  v/as  to  come,  she  could  not  feel 
as  yet.  She  knew  what  she  would  do  to-morrow — after  that 
all  was  a  blank. 

What  a  lovely  night  it  was  !  What  were  they  doing  at 
home?  What  was  Trixy  about  just  now?  What  was — 
Charley?  She  had  made  up  her  mind  never  to  think  of 
Charley  more.  His  face  rose  vividly  before  her  now  in  the 
moonrays,  pale,  stern,  contemptuous.  "  Oh  I "  she  pas- 
sionately thought,  "how  he  must  scorn,  how  he  must  des- 
pise me!"  "Whatever  comes,"  he  had  said  to  her  that 
rainy  morning  at  Sandypoint ;  "  whatever  the  new  life  brings, 
you  are  never  to  blame  me  I"  How  long  ago  that  rainy 
morning  seemed  now.  What  an  eternity  since  that  other 
night  in  the  snow.  If  she  had  only  died  beside  him  that 
night — the  clear,  white,  painless  death — unspotted  from  the 
world  I     If  she  had  only  died  that  night ! 

Her  arms  were  on  the  wiudow-sill — her  face  fell  upon 
them.  One  hour,  two,  three  passed ;  she  never  moved. 
She  was  not  crying,  she  was  suffering,  but  dully,  with  a 
numb,  torpid,  miserable  sense  of  pain.  All  her  life  since 
that  rainy  spring  day,  when  Charley  Stuart  had  come  to 
Sandypoint  with  his  mother's  letter,  returned  to  her.  She 
'  had  striven  and  cocjuctted  to  bring  about  the  result  she 
wanted— it  had  seemed  such  a  dazzling  thing  to  be  a  baro- 
net's wife,  with  an  income  that  would  llow  in  to  her  like  a 
ceaseless  golden  river.  She  had  jilted  the  man  slie  loved  in 
cold  blood,  and  accepted  the  man  to  whom  her  heart  was 


3o6 


THE  DA  Y  AFTER. 


If  you  only  saw  yourself! 
A  glass  of  wine  from  the 

I  have  sat  up  too  long  in 


as  stone.     In  the  hour  when  fortune  was  deserting  hei"  best 
friends,  she  had  deserted  them  too.     And  the  end  was — this. 

It  was  close  upon  twelve  wlien  Kmily,  the  maid,  sleepy 
and  cross,  tapped  at  the  door.  She  had  to  tap  many  times 
before  her  mistress  heard  her.  When  she  did  iiear  and  open, 
and  the  girl  came  in,  she  recoiled  from  the  ghastly  pallor  of 
her  lady's  face. 

"  I  shall  not  want  you  to-night,"  Julith  said  briefly. 
"  You  may  go  to  bed." 

"  But  you  are  ill,  my  lady. 
Can't  I  fetch  you  something? 
dining-room  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Emily,  thank  you. 
the  night  air — that  is  all.    Go  to  bed  ;  I  shall  do  very  well. 

The  girl  went,  full  of  pity  and  wonder,  shaking  her  head. 
"  Only  this  morning  I  thought  what  a  fine  thing  it  was  to  be 
the  bride  of  so  fine  a  gentleman,  and  look  at  her  now." 

Left  alone,  she  closed  and  fastened  the  window  herself 
An  unsupportable  sense  of  pain  and  wearine.  s  ojipressed 
her.  She  did  not  undress.  She  loosened  her  clothes, 
wrapped  a  heavy,  soft  railway  rug  about  her,  and  lay  down 
upon  the  bed.  In  five  minutes  the  tired  eyes  had  closed. 
There  is  no  surer  narcotic  than  trouble  sometimes  ;  hers 
•was  forgotten — deeply,  dreamlessly,  she  slei)t  until  morning. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  sky  when  she  awoke.  .She  raised 
herself  upon  her  elbow  and  looked  around,  bewildered.  In 
a  second  yesterday  flashed  upon  her,  and  her  journey  of  to- 
day. She  arose,  made  her  morning  toilet,  and  rang  for  her 
maid.  Breakfast  was  waiting — it  was  past  nine  o'clock,  and 
she  could  leave  Carnarvon  in  three  quarters  of  an  hour. 
She  made  an  effort  to  eat  and  drink  ;  but  it  was  little  better 
than  an  effort.  She  gave  Jamison  his  parting  instructions — 
he  was  to  remain  here  untd  to-morrow ;  by  that  time  orders 
would  come  from  Powyss  Place.  Then,  in  the  dress  she 
had  travelled  in  yesterday,  she  entered  the  railway  carriage 
and  started  upon  her  return  journey. 

How  speedily  her  honeymoon  had  ended !  A  curious 
sort  of  smile  passed  over  her  face  as  she  thought  it.  She 
had  not  anticipated  Elysium — quite — but  she  certainly  had 
anticipated  something  very  different  from  this. 

She  kept  back  thought  resolutely — she  would  not  think — 


THE  DAY  AFTER. 


307 


•py 


uf 


she  sat  and  looked  at  the  genial  October  landscape  flitting 
by.     Sooner  or  later  the  tloodgates  would  opc;n,  but  not  yet. 

It  was  about  three  in  the  afternoon  wlien  the  tly  from  the 
railway  drove  up  to  the  stately  portico  entrance  of  Powyss 
Place.  She  paid  and  dismissed  the  man,  and  knocked  un- 
thinkingly. The  servant  wiio  opened  the  door  fell  back, 
staring  at  her,  as  though  she  had  been  a  ghost. 

•'  Js  Lady  Helena  at  home  ?  " 

Lady  Helena  was  at  home — and  still  the  man  stari-d 
blankly  as  lie  made  tiie  reply.  She  swept  past  him,  and 
made  her  way,  unannounced,  to  her  ladyshii^s  private  rooms. 
She  tapped  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  familiar  voice,  and  she  obeyed. 
Then  a  startled  cry  rang  out.  Lady  Helena  arose  and 
stood  spellbound,  gazing  in  mute  consternation  at  the  pale 
girl  before  her. 

"Edith!"  she  could  but  just  gasp.  "  Wiiat  is  this? 
Where  is  Victor?" 

Edith  came  in,  closed  the  door,  and  quietly  faced  her 
ladyship. 

"  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea  where  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
may  be  at  this  present  moment.  Wherever  he  is,  it  is 
to  be  hoped  he  is  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  1  know  I 
have  not  seen  him  since  four  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon." 

The  lips  of  Lady  Helena  moved,  but  no  sound  came 
from  them.  Some  great  and  nameless  terror  seemed  to 
have  fallen  upon  her. 

"  It  was  rather  an  unusual  thing  to  do,"  the  clear,  steady 
tones  of  the  bride  went  on,  "but  being  very  tired  after  the 
journey,  I  fell  asleep  in  the  cottage  parlor  at  Carnarvon, 
half  ail  hour  after  our  arrival.  Sir  Victor  had  left  me  to 
take  a  walk  and  a  smoke,  he  said.  It  was  nearly  seven 
when  I  awoke.  I  was  still  alone.  Your  nephew  had  come 
and  gone." 

"  Gone ! " 

"  (ione — and  loft  this  for  me.  Read  it.  Lady  Helena, 
and  you  will  see  that  in  returning  here,  I  am  only  obeying 
my  lord  and  master's  command." 

She  took  the  note  froiU  her  pocket,  and  presented  it. 
Her  ladyship  took  it,  read  it,  her  face  growing  a  dreadful 
ashen  gray. 


3o8 


THE  DAY  AFTER. 


"  So  soon  ! "  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  whisper ;  "  that  it 
should  have  fallen  upon  him  so  soon  !  Oh  !  I  feared  it !  I 
feared  it !  I  feared  it !  " 

"  You  feared  it!"  Edith  reiieated,  watching  her  intently. 
"  Does  that  mean  your  ladyship  understands  this  letter  ?  " 

"  Heaven  help  me  I     I  am  afraid  1  do." 

"  It  means,  then,  what  I  have  thought  it  meant :  that  when 
I  married  Sir  Victor  yesterday  I  married  a  madman  ! " 

There  was  a  sort  of  moan  from  Lady  Helena — no  other 
reply. 

"  Insanity  is  in  the  Catheron  blood — I  knew  that  from 
the  first.  His  father  lived  and  died  a  maniac.  The  father's 
fate  is  the  son's.  It  has  lain  dormant  for  three-and-twenty 
years,  to  break  out  on  his  wedding-day.  Lady  Helena,  am 
I  right  ?  " 

But  Lady  Helena  was  sobbing  convulsively  now.  Her 
sobs  were  her  only  reply. 

"  It  is  hard  on  you"  Edith  said,  with  a  dreary  sort  of  pity. 
"You  loved  him." 

"  And  you  did  not,"  the  elder  woman  retorted,  looking  up. 
"You  loved  your  cousin,  and  you  married  my  poor,  un- 
happy boy  for  his  title  and  his  wealth.  It  would  h.i.ve  been 
better  for  hiin  he  had  died  than  ever  set  eyes  on  your  face." 

"  Much  better,"  Edith  answered  steadily.  "  Better  for 
him — better  for  me.  You  are  right,  Lady  Helena  Powyss, 
I  loved  my  cousin,  and  I  married  your  nephew  for  his  title 
and  his  wealth.  I  deserve  all  you  can  say  of  me.  The 
worst  will  not  be  half  bad  enough." 

Her  ladyshii)'s  face  drooped  again  ;  her  suppressed  sobbing 
was  the  only  sound  to  be  heard. 

"  I  have  come  to  you,"  Edith  went  on,  "  to  tell  yow  the 
truth.  I  don't  ask  what  his  secret  is  he  speaks  of;  I  don't 
wish  to  know.  I  think  he  should  be  looked  after.  If  he  is 
insane  he  siiould  not  be  allowed  to  go  at  large." 

"  If  he  is  insane  !  "  Lady  Helena  cried,  looking  up  again 
angrily.  "  You  do  well  to  say//.  He  is  no  more  insane 
thin  you  are  !  " 

lulith  stood  still  looking  at  her.  The  last  trace  of  color 
fadetl  from  her  face. 

'^^  Not  insane,"  she  whispered,  as  if  to  herself;  '■^  not  in- 
sane, and — he  deserts  mc  !" 


THE  DA  Y  AFTER. 


t    it 
I  I 

itly. 


309 


oni 

r's 

-'11  (y 

am 


"  Oh,  what  have  I  said  !  "  Lady  Helena  cried  ;  "  forgive 
nie,  Edith — I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying — I  don't  know 
wliat  to  think.  Leave  me  alone,  and  let  me  try  to  under- 
stand it,  if  I  can.  Your  old  rooms  are  ready  for  you.  You 
have  come  to  remain  with  me,  of  course." 

"  For  the  preserit— yes.  Of  the  future  I  have  not  yet 
thought.  I  will  leave  you  alone,  Lady  Helena,  as  you  de- 
sire.    I  will  not  trouble  you  again  until  to-morrow."  , 

She  was  quitting  the  room.  Lady  Helena  arose  and  took 
her  in  her  arms,  her  face  all  blotted  with  a  rain  of  tears. 

"  My  child  !  my  child!"  jhe  said,  "it  is  hard  on  you — 
so  young,  so  pretty,  and  only  married  yesterday !  Edith, 
you  frighten  mc  !  What  are  you  made  of?  You  look  like 
a  stone ! " 

The  girl  sighed — a  long,  weary,  heart-sick  sigh. 

"  I  feel  like  a  stone.  I  can't  cry.  I  think  I  have  no 
heart,  no  soul,  no  teeling,  no  conscience — that  i  am  scarcely 
a  human  being.  I  am  a  hardened,  callous  wretch,  for  whom 
any  fate  is  too  good.  Don't  pity  me,  dear  Lady  Helena; 
don't  waste  one  tear  on  me.      I  am  not  worth  it." 

She  touched  her  li[)s  to  the  wet  cheek,  and  went  slowly  on 
her  way.  No  heart — no  soid  !  if  she  had,  both  felt  be- 
numbed, dead.  She  seemed  to  herself  a  century  old,  as  she 
toiled  on  to  her  familiar  rooms.  They  mi,t  no  more  that 
day — each  kept  to  her  own  apartments. 

The  afternoon  set  in  wet  and  wild  ;  the  rain  fell  cease- 
lessly and  dismally  ;  an  evening  to  depress  the  happiest 
closed  down. 

It  was  long  after  dark  when  there  came  a  ring  at  the  bell, 
and  the  footman,  opening  the  door,  saw  the  figure  of  a  man 
nuifilod  and  disguised  in  slouch  hat  and  great  coat.  He 
held  Iw  uu)l)reila  over  his  head,  anil  a  scarf  was  twisted 
about  the  lower  i)art  of  his  face.  In  a  husky  voice,  stilled 
in  his  scarf,  he  asked  for  Lady  Helena. 

"  H<;r  ladyship's  at  home,"  the  footman  answered,  rather 
superciliously,  "but  she  don't  see  strangers  at  this  hour." 

"Ciive  her  this,"  the  stranger  said  ;  "she  will  see  ///f." 

In  spite  of  hat,  scarf,  and  umbrella,  there  was  something 
familiar  in  the  air  of  the  visitor,  something  familiar  in  his 
tone.  The  man  took  the  note  suspiciously  and  passed  it  to 
another,  who  passed  it  to  her  ladyship's  maiil.     The  maid 


310   THE  SECOND  ENDING   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 

passed  it  to  her  ladyship,  and  her  ladyshi|)  read  it  with  a 
supi)ressed  cry. 

"Show  him  into  the  Hbrary  at  once.     I  will  go  down." 

The  nnifflcd  man  was  shown  in,  still  wearing  hat  and 
scarf.  The  library  was  but  dimly  lit.  He  stood  like  a  dark 
shadow  amid  the  other  shadows.  An  instant  later  the  door 
opened  and  Lady  Helena,  pale  and  wild,  appeared  on  the 
threshold. 

"It  is,"  she  fcdtcred,  "it  is— you  !  " 

She  ai^proached  slowly,  her  terrified  eyes  riveted  on  the 
hidden  face. 

"  It  is  I.     Lock  the  door." 

She  obeyed,  she  came  nearer.  He  drew  away  the  scarf, 
lifted  the  hat,  and  showed  her  the  face  of  Sir  Victor  Cath- 
eron. 


CHAPTER   XXin. 


THE  SECOND  ENDING  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 


HE  morning  dawned  over  Powyss  Place — dawned 
in  wild  wind  and  driving  rain  still — dawned  upon 
Edith,  deserted  more  strangely  than  surely  bride 
was  ever  deserted  before. 
She  had  darkened  her  chamber ;  she  had  forced  herself 
resolutely  to  sleep.  But  the  small  hours  had  come  before 
she  had  succeeded,  and  it  was  close  upon  ten  when  the  dark 
eyes  opened  from  dreamland  to  life.  Strange  mockery  !  it 
was  ever  of  Charley  and  the  days  that  were  forever  gone  she 
dreamed  now. 

For  hours  and  hours  she  had  jiaced  her  room  the  evening 
and  night  before,  all  the  desolation,  all  the  emptiness  and 
loss  of  her  life  si)read  out  before  her.  She  had  sold  herself 
deliberately  and  with  her  eyes  open,  and  this  was  her  reward. 
Deserted  in  the  hour  of  her  triumph — humiliated  as  never 
bride  was  humiliated  before — the  talk,  the  ridicule  of  the 
country,  an  object  of  contemptuous  pity  to  the  whole  world. 
And  Charley  and  l'ri.xy,  what  wOuld  they  say  when  they 
heard  of  her  downfall?      She  was  very  proud— no   young 


THE  SECOND  ENDING  OF  THE   TRAGEDY. 


3" 


ii  a 


princess  had  ever  hnugliticr  blood  coursing  through  her  royal 
veins  than  tliis  ;;oitionless  American  girl.  For  wealth  snd 
rank  she  had  bartered  Hfe  and  love,  and  veriiy  she  had  her 
reward. 

She  suffered  horribly.  As  she  paced  up  and  down,  her 
whole  face  was  distorted  wilii  the  torture  witiiin.  She  flung 
herself  into  a  seat  and  tried  to  still  the  ceaseless,  gnawing, 
maddening  pain.  In  vain  !  She  could  neither  sit  still,  nor 
think,  nor  deaden  her  torment.  And  when  at  last  she 
threw  herself  face  downward  on  her  betl  it  was  only  to  sleep 
the  spent  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  But  she  was  "  pluck  " 
to  the  backbone.  Next  day,  when  she  had  bathed  and  made 
her  toilet,  and  descended  to  tiie  breakfast-room,  the  closest 
observer  could  have  read  nothing  of  last  night  in  the  fixed 
calm  uf  her  face.  The  worst  that  could  ever  happen  had 
happened  ;    she  was  ready  now  to  live  and  die  game. 

Lady  Helena,  very  pale,  very  tremulous,  very  frightened 
and  helpless-looking,  awaited  her.  A  large,  red  fire  burned 
on  the  hearth.  Her  ladyship  was  wrapped  in  a  fluffy  white 
shawl,  but  she  shivered  in  spite  of  both.  The  lips  that 
touched  Edith's  cheek  were  almost  as  cold  as  that  cold 
cheek  itself     Tears  started  to  her  eyes  as  she  spoke  to  her. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "how  white  you  are  ;  how  cold  and 
ill  you  look.     I  am  afraid  you  did  not  sleep  at  all." 

"Yes,  I  slept,"  answered  Edith;  "for  a  few  hours,  at 
least.  The  weather  has  something  to  do  with  it,  perhaps  ; 
1  always  fall  a  prey  to  horrors  in  wet  and  windy  weather." 

Then  they  sat  down  to  the  fragrant  and  tempting 
breakfast,  and  ate  with  what  a[)pelite  they  might.  For  Edith, 
she  hardly  made  a  pretence  of  eating — she  drank  a  large 
cup  of  strong  coffee,  and  arose. 

"Lady  Helena,"  she  began  abrui)tly,  "as  I  came  out  of 
my  room,  two  of  the  servants  were  whisi)ering  in  the  corridor. 
1  merely  caugiit  a  word  or  two  in  passing.  They  stopped 
i;n:ne(liately  upon  seeing  me.  IJut  from  that  word  or  two,  I 
infer  this — Sir  Victor  Catheron  was  here  to  see  you  last 
nigiit." 

Lady  Helena  was  trilling  nervously  with  her  spoon — it 
fell  with  a  clash  now  into  her  cup,  and  her  terrified  eyes 
looked  piteously  at  her  companion. 

"  if  you  desire  to  keep  this  a  secret  too,"  Edith  said,  her 


312 


THE  SECON'D  ENDING   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 


lips  curling  scornfully,  "  of  course  you  are  at  liberty  to  do 
so — of  course  I  presume  to  ar,k  no  questions.  But  if  not,  I 
would  like  to  know — it  may  in  some  measure  influence  my 
own  movemenls." 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  "  her  ladyship  brokenly 
asked. 

"  That  you  shall  hear  presently.  Just  now  the  question 
is  :   Was  your  nephew  here  last  night  or  not?  " 

"  He  was." 

She  said  it  with  a  sort  of  sob,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands,  "May  Heaven  help  nie,"  she  cried  ;"  it  is  grow- 
ing more  than  I  can  bear.  O  my  child,  what  can  I  say  to 
you  ?  how  can  I  comfort  you  in  this  great  trouble  that  has 
come  upon  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  good,  but  I  would  rather  not  be  com- 
forted. I  have  been  utterly  base  and  mercenary  from  first 
to  last — a  wretch  who  has  richly  earned  her  (lite.  Whatever 
has  befallen  me  I  deserve.  I  married  your  nephew  witli- 
out  one  spark  of  affection  for  him  ;  he  was  no  more  to  Ine 
than  any  laborer  on  his  estate — I  doubt  whether  he  ever  could 
have  been.  I  meant  to  try — who  knows  how  it  would  have 
ended?  I  married  Sir  Victor  Calheron  for  his  rank  and 
riches,  his  title  and  rent-roll — I  married  the  baronet,  not  the 
man.  And  it  has  ended  thus.  I  am  widowed  on  n;y 
wedding-day,  cast  off,  forsaken.  Have  I  not  earned  my 
fate  ?  " 

Siie  laughed  drearily — a  short,  mirthless,  bitter  laugh. 

"  I  don't  venture  to  ask  too  many  questions — I  don't  bat- 
tle with  my  fate  ;  I  throw  up  my  arms  and  yield  at  once. 
13ut  this  I  would  like  to  know.  Madness  is  hereditary  in  his 
family.  Unworthy  of  all  love  as  I  am,  I  think — I  think 
Sir  Victor  loved  me.  and,  unless  he  be  mad,  I  can't  under- 
stand 7i'//v  lie  deseitnl  me.  Lady  Helena,  annver  me  tli.s, 
as  you  will  one.  d;iv  answer  to  your  IVTaker — Is  Sir  Victor 
Catheron  sane  or  mad  ?  " 

Tiiere  was  a  pause  as  she  asked  tlie  dreadful  question — a 
pause  in  which  the  bciting  of  tlie  autumnal  rain  upon  tin; 
glass,  tlie  sougliing  of  the  autumnal  gale  sounded  preternat- 
urally  loud.  Then,  hrolcenly,  in  trembling  tones,  and  not 
looking  up,  came  Lady  Helena's  answer  : 

"  God  pity  him  and  you — he  is  not  mad." 


THE  SECOND  ENDING   OF   THE   TRAGEDY. 


313 


Then  there  was  silence  again.  The  elder  woman,  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands  and  resting  on  the  table,  was  cry- 
ing silently  and  miserably.  At  the  window,  the  tall,  slim 
figure  of  the  girl  stood  motionless,  her  hands  clasped  loosely 
before  her,  her  deep  bright  eyes  looking  out  at  the  slanting 
rain,  the  low-lying,  lead  colored  sky,  the  black  trees  blown 
aslant  in  the  high  October  gale. 

"Not  mad?"  she  repeated,  after  that  long  pause  ;  "you 
are  quite  certain  of  this,  my  lady?  Not  mad — and  he  has 
left  me  ?  " 

"  He  has  left  you.  O  my  child  !  if  I  dared  only  tell  you 
all-  ii  I  dared  only  tell  you  how  it  is  ^^<r«^j-<7  of  his  great  and 
passionate  love  for  you,  he  leaves  you.  If  ever  there  was  a 
martyr  on  this  earth,  it  is  my  poor  boy.  If  you  had  seen 
him  as  I  saw  him  last  night — worn  to  a  shadow  in  one  day, 
suffering  for  the  loss  of  you  until  death  would  be  a  relief — 
even  yott  would  have  pitied  him." 

"  Would  I  ?  Well,  perhaps  so,  though  my  heart  is  rather  a 
hard  one.  Of  course  I  don't  understand  a  word  of  all  this — 
of  course,  as  he  said  in  his  letter,  some  secret  of  guilt  and 
shame  lies  behind  it  all.  And  yet,  perhaps,  I  could  come 
nearer  to  the  '  Secret'  than  either  you  or  he  think." 

Lady  Helena  looked  suddenly  up,  that  terrified,  hunted 
look  in  her  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  gasped. 

"This,"  the  firm,  cold  voice  of  Edith  said,  as  Edith's 
bright,  dark  eyes  fixed  themselves  pitilessly  upon  her,  "  this, 
Lady  Helena  Powyss  :  That  the  secret  which  takes  him  from 
me  is  the  secret  of  his  mother's  nuirder — the  secret  which  he 
learned  at  his  father's  deathbed.  Shall  I  tell  you  who  com- 
mitted that  murder?" 

Her  ladyship's  li|>s  moved,  but  no  sound  came ;  she  sat 
spellbouhd,  watching  that  pale,  fixed  face  before  her. 

"Not  Inez  Catheron,  who  was  imprisoned  for  it;  not 
Juan  Catheron,  who  was  suspected  of  it.  I  am  a  Yankee, 
Lady  Helena,  and  consequently  clever  at  guessing.  I  be- 
lieve that  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  in  cold  blood,  murdered  his 
own  wife  ! " 

There  was  a  sobbing  cry — whether  at  the  shock  of  the 
terrible  words,  or  at  their  truth,  who  was  to  tell  ? 

"  I  believe  the  late  Sir  Victor  Catheron  to  have  been  a 


314 


THE  SECOND  ENDING   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 


deliberate  and  cowardly  murderer,"  Edith  went  on ;  "  so 
cowardly  that  his  weak,  brain  turned  when  he  saw  what  he 
had  done  and  thought  of  the  consenuences ;  and  tiiat  he 
paid  the  penalty  of  his  crime  in  a  life  of  insanity.  The  mo- 
tive I  don't  jiretend  to  fathom — jealousy  of  Juan  Catheron 
perhaps  ;   and  on  his  dying  bed  he  confessed  all  to  his  son." 

With  flxce  blanched  and  eyes  still  full  of  terror,  her  lady- 
ship looked  at  the  dark,  contemptuous,  resolute  speaker. 

"  And  if  this  be  true — your  horrible  surmise ;  mind,  I  don't 
admit  that  it  is — would  that  be  any  excuse  for  Victor's  con- 
duct in  leaving  you?" 

"  No  !"  Edith  answered,  her  eyes  flashing,  "none  !  Hav- 
ing married  me,  not  ten  thousand  family  secrets  should  be 
strong  enough  to  make  him  desert  me.  If  he  had  come  to 
me,  if  he  had  told  me,  as  he  was  bound  to  do  before  our 
wedding-day,  I  would  have. pitied  him  with  all  tny  soul ;  if 
anything  could  ever  have  made  me  care  for  him  as  a  wife 
should  care  for  a  husband,  it  would  have  been  that  pity.  But 
if  he  came  to  me  now,  and  knelt  before  ine,  imploring  uie  to 
return,  I  would  not.     I  would  die  sooner!" 

She  was  walking  up  and  ilown  now,  gleams  of  passionate 
scorn  and  rage  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  It  is  all  folly  and  balderdash,  this  talk  of  his  love  for  mc 
making  him  leave  me.  Don't  let  us  have  any  more  of  it. 
No  secret  on  earth  siiould  make  a  bridegroom  quit  his  bride 
— no  power  on  earth  could  ever  convince  me  of  it  \" 

"And  yet,"  the  sad,  patient  voice  of  poor  Lady  Helena 
sighed,  "  it  is  true." 

Edith  stoi)ped  in  her  walk,  and  looked  at  her  incredu- 
1  )usly. 

"  Lady  Helena,"  she  said,  "  you  are  my  kind  friend — you 
know  the  woikl — you  are  a  woman  of  sense,  not  likely  to 
have  your  brain  turned  with  va|)ors.  Answer  rue  this — Do 
you  think  that,  acting  as  he  has  done,  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
has  done  right  ?  " 

Lady  Helena's  sad  eyes  met  hers  full.  Lady  Helena's 
voice  was  full  of  pathos  and  earnestness,  as  she  replied : 

"  Ediih,  I  am  your  friend  ;  I  am  in  my  sober  senses,  and, 
1  believe  in  my  soul  Victor  has  done  ri^^ht." 

"Well,"  Edith  said  after  a  long  pause,  during  wHtkh  she 
resumed  her  walk,  "  I  give  it  up  !     I  don't  understand,  and 


THE  SECOND  ENDING   OF   ThZ   TRAGEDY. 


315 


I  never  shall.  I  am  hopelessly  in  the  dark.  I  can  conceive 
no  motive — none  strong  enough  to  make  his  conduct  right. 
I  thought  him  mad ;  you  say  he  is  sane.  I  thought  he  did 
me  a  shameful,  irreparable  wrong ;  you  say  he  has  done 
riglit.  I  will  think  no  more  about  it,  since,  if  I  thought  to 
my  dying  day,  I  could  come  no  nearer  the  truth." 

"  You  will  know  one  day,"  answered  Lady  Helena ;  "  on 
his  death-bed ;  and,  poor  fellow,  the  sooner  that  day  comes 
the  better  for  him." 

Editii  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

•'  Let  us  talk  about  it  no  more.  Wliat  is  done  is  done. 
Whether  Sir  Victor  Cathcron  lives  or  dies  can  in  no  way 
concern  me  now.  I  think,  with  your  permission,  I  will  go 
back  to  my  room  and  try  to  slee])  away  this  dismal  day." 

"  Wait  one  moment,  Edith.  It  was  on  your  account  Vic- 
tor came  here  last  night  to  talk  over  the  arrangements  he 
was  making  for  your  future." 

A  curious  smile  came  over  Edith's  lips.  She  was  once 
more  back  at  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  rain-beaten  day, 

"  My  future  ! "  she  slowly  repeated  ;  "  in  what  possible  way 
can  my  future  concern  Sir  Victor  Catheron  ?  " 

"  My  child,  what  a  question  I  In  every  way.  You  are 
honest  enough  to  confess  that  you  married  him — poor  boy, 
poor  boy — for  his  rank  and  rent-roll.  There,  at  least,  you 
need  not  be  disappointed.  The  settlements  made  ui)on  you 
before  your  marriage  were,  as  you  know,  liberal  in  the  ex- 
treme. In  addition  to  that,  every  farthing  tliat  it  is  in  his 
power  to  dispose  of  he  intends  settling  upon  you  besides. 
His  grandmother's  fortune,  which  descends  to  him,  is  to  be 
yours.  You  may  spend  money  like  water  if  it  pleases  you — 
tlie  title  and  the  wealth  for  which  you  wedded  are  slill  yours. 
]'or  himself,  he  intends  to  go  abroad — to  the  East,  I  believe. 
He  retains  nothing  but  what  will  sui)ply  his  travelling  ex- 
jienses.  He  cannot  meet  you — if  he  did,  he  might  never  be 
able  to  leave  you.  O  Edith,  you  blame  him,  you  hate 
him  ;  but  if  you  had  only  seen  him,  only  heard  him  last  niglit, 
only  knew  how  inevitable  it  is,  how  he  suffered,  how  bitterer 
than  death  this  parting  is  to  him,  you  wnild  pity,  you  would 
forgive  him." 

"  You  think  so,"  the  girl  said,  with  a  wistful,  weary  sigh. 
"Ah,  well,  perhaps   so.     I  don't  know.    Just  now  I  can 


3x6 


THE  SECOND  ENDING   OF    T//E    TRAGEDY. 


realize  notliiiig  except  that  I  am  a  lost,  forsaken  wretch; 
that  I  do  hate  him  ;  that  if  I  were  dyin<^,  or  that  if  he  were 
dying,  I  could  not  say  '  I  forgive  you.'  As  to  his  liberality,  I 
never  doubted  that ;  I  have  owned  that  I  married  him  for 
his  wealth  and  station.  I  own  it  still ;  but  there  are  some 
things  not  the  wealth  of  a  king  could  compensate  for.  To 
desert  a  bride  on  her  wedding-day  is  one  of  them.  I  repeat, 
Lady  Helena,  with  your  permission,  I  will  go  to  my  room  ; 
we  won't  talk  of  my  future  plans  and  prospects  just  now. 
To-morrow  you  shall  know  my  decision." 

She  turned  to  go.  The  elder  woman  looked  after  her 
with  yearning,  sorrowful  eyes. 

"  If  I  knew  what  to  do — if  I  knew  what  to  say,"  she  mur- 
mured helplessly,  "Edith,  I  loved  him  more  dearly  than 
any  son.  I  think  my  heart  is  breaking.  O  child,  don't 
judge  him — be  merciful  to  him  who  loves  you  while  he  leaves 
you — be  merciful  to  me  whose  life  has  been  so  full  of 
trouble." 

Her  voice  broke  down  in  a  passion  of  tears.  Edith  turned 
from  the  door,  put  her  arms  around  her  neck  and  kissed 
her. 

"  Dear  friend,"  she  said  ;  "  dear  Lady  Helena,  I  pity  you 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  wish — I  wish  I  could  only 
comfort  you." 

"  You  can,"  was  the  eager  answer.  *'  Stay  with  me, 
Edith  ;  don't  leave  me  alone.  Be  a  daughter  to  me  ;  take 
the  place  of  the  son  I  have  lost." 

But  Edith's  pale,  resolute  face  did  not  soften. 
"  To-morrow  we  will  settle  all  this,"  was  her  reply.  "  Wait 
until  to-morrow." 

Then  she  was  gone — shut  up  and  locked  in  her  own 
room.  She  did  not  descend  to  either  luncheon  or  dinner — 
one  of  the  housemaids  served  her  in  her  dressing-room.  And 
Lady  Helena,  alone  and  miserable,  wandered  uneasily  about 
the  lower  rooms,  and  wondered  how  she  spent  that  long  rainy 
day. 

She  spent  it  busily  enough.  The  plain  black  box  she  had 
brought  from  New  York,  containing  all  her  earthly  belong- 
ings, she  drew  out  and  packed.  It  was  not  hard  to  do,  since 
nothing  went  into  it  but  what  had  belonged  to  her  then.  All 
the  dresses,  all  the  jewels,  all  the  costly  gifts  that, had  been 


THE  SECOND  ENDING   OF    THE    TRAGEDY. 


317 


given  her  by  Ihc  man  she  had  married,  and  his  friends,  she 
left  as  they  were.  She  kept  nothinf;,  not  even  her  wedding- 
ring  :  she  placed  it  among  the  rest,  in  the  jewel  casket,  closed 
and  locked  it.  Tiien  she  wrote  a  letter  to  Lady  Helena, 
and  placed  the  key  inside.     Tliis  is  what  she  said : 

"  Dear  Friend  :  When  you  open  this  I  shall  have  left 
Powyss  Place  forever.  It  will  be  quite  useless  to  follow  or 
endeavor  to  bring  me  back.  My  mind  is  made  up.  I  rec- 
ognize no  authority — nothing  will  induce  me  to  revoke  my 
decision.  I  go  out  into  the  world  to  make  my  own  way. 
^Vith  youth,  and  health,  and  ordinary  intelligence,  it  ought 
not  to  be  impossible.  Tiie  things  belonging  to  me  when  I 
first  came  here  1  have  packed  in  the  black  box ;  in  a  week 
you  will  have  the  kindness  to  forward  it  to  the  Euston  sta- 
tion. The  rest  I  leave  behind — retaining  one  or  two  books 
as  souvenirs  o{ yon.  1  take  nothing  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron's 
— not  even  his  name.  You  must  see  that  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible ;  that  I  must  lose  the  last  shred  of  pride  and  self-re- 
spect before  I  could  assume  his  name  or  take  a  penny  be- 
longing to  him.  Dear,  kind  Lady  Helena,  good-by.  If  we 
never  meet  again  in  the  world,  remember  there  is  no  thought 
in  my  heart  of  you  that  is  not  one  of  affection  and  grati- 
tude. Edith." 


Her  hand  never  trembled  as  she  wrote  this  letter.  She 
placed  the  key  in  it,  folded,  sealed,  and  addressed  it.  It 
was  dark  by  this  time.  As  she  knelt  to  cord  and  lock  her 
trunk,  she  espied  the  writing  case  within  it.  She  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  took  it  out,  opened  it,  and  drew  forth  the 
packet  of  Charley  Stuart's  letters.  She  took  out  the 
photograph  and  looked  at  it  with  a  half-tender,  half-sad 
smile. 

"  I  never  thought  to  look  at  you  again,"  she  said  softly. 
"  You  are  all  I  have  left  now." 

She  put  the  picture  in  her  bosom,  replaced  the  rest,  and 
locked  the  trunk,  and  put  the  key  in  her  purse.  She  sat 
down  and  counted  her  money.  She  was  the  possessor  of 
twelve  sovereigns — left  over  from  Mr.  Stuart,  senior's, 
bounty.  It  was  her  whole  stock  of  wealth  with  which  to 
face  and  begin  the  world.     Then  she  sat  down  resolutely  to 


3i8 


Tim  SECOND  ENDING   OF   THE   TRAGEDY. 


think  it  out.     And  the  question  rose  grim  before  her,  "  What 
am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Go  out  into  the  world  and  work  for  your  daily  bread. 
Face  the  poverty  you  have  feared  so  much,  through  fear  of 
which,  two  days  ago,  you  sold  yourself.  Go  to  London — 
it  is  the  centre  of  the  world  ;  lose  yourself,  hide  from  all  who 
ever  knew  you.  Go  to  London.  Work  of  some  kind  can 
surely  be  had  by  the  willing  in  that  mighty  city.  Go  to 
London," 

That  was  the  answer  that  came  clearly.  She  slirank  for 
a  moment — the  thought  of  facing  life  single-handed,  poor 
and  alone  in  that  great,  terrible,  pitiless  city,  was  overwhelm- 
ing. But  she  did  not  flinch  from  her  resolve  ;  her  mind  was 
made  up.     Come  woe,  come  weal,  she  would  go  to  London. 

An  "  A.  B.  C."  railway  guide  lay  on  the  table — she  con- 
sulted it.  A  train  left  Chester  for  London  at  eight  o'clock, 
A.  M.  Neither  Lady  Helena  nor  any  of  her  household  was 
slirring  at  that  hour.  She  could  walk  to  Chesholm  in  the 
early  morning,  get  a  fly  there  and  drive  to  the  Chester  station 
in  time.     By  four  in  the  afternoon  she  would  be  in  London. 

No  thought  of  returning  home  ever  recurred  to  her. 
Home !  What  home  had  she  ?  Her  step-mother  was  master 
and  mistress  in  her  father's  house,  and  to  return,  to  go  back 
to  Sandypoint,  and  the  life  she  had  left,  was  as  utter  an  im- 
possibility almost  as  though  she  should  take  a  rope  and  hang 
herself  She  had  not  the  means  to  go  if  she  had  desired, 
but  that  made  no  difference.  She  could  never  go  back,  never 
see  her  father,  or  Charley,  or  Trixy  more.  Alone  she  must 
live,  alone  she  must  die. 

The  flood-gates  were  opened  ;  she  suffered  this  last  night 
as  women  of  her  strong,  self-contained  temperament  only 
suffer. 

"  Save  me,  O  God  !  for  the  waters  are  come  into  my  soul !  " 
That  was  the  wild,  wordless  prayer  of  her  heart.  Her  life 
was  wrecked,  her  heart  was  desolate  ;  she  must  go  forth  a 
beggar  and  an  outcast,  and  fight  the  bitter  battle  of  life  alone. 
And  love,  and  home,  and  Charley  might  have  been  hers. 
"  It  might  have  been  !''  Is  there  any  anguish  in  this  world 
of  anguish  like  that  we  work  with  our  own  hands  ? — any  sor- 
row like  that  which  we  bring  ujwn  ourselves?  In  the  dark- 
ness she  sank  down  upon  her  knees,  her  face  covered  with 


THE  SECOND  ENDING    OF   THE    TRAGEDY.     319 

her  hands,  tears,  that  were  as  (headful  as  tears  of  blood,  fall- 
in''  from  her  eyes.  Lost— lost !  all  that  made  life  worL 
havinfv.     To  live  and  die  alone,  that  was  her  fate  1     _ 

So  the  black,  wiUl  night  passed,  hiding  her,  as  luiscrable 
a  woman  as  the  wide  earth  held. 


The  gray  dawn  of  the  dull  October  morning  was  creepmg 
over  the  far-off  Welsli  hills  as  Edith  in  shawl  and  hat,  closely 
veiled,  and  carryins?  a  hand-bag,  came  softly  down  the  stairs, 
and  out  of  a  side  door,  chielly  used  by  the  servants,  bhe 
met  no  one.  Noiselessly  she  drew  the  bolt,  opened  the  door, 
and  looked  out.  .  . 

It  was  raw  and  cold,  a  dreary  wind  still  blowing,  but  it 
had  ceased  to  rain.     As  she  stood  there,  seven  struck  froni 
the  turret  clock.     "One  long,  last,  lingering  look  behind 
—one  last  upward  glance  at  Lady  Helena's  windows. 

"  Good-by  !  "  the  pale  lips  whispered  ;  then  she  passed  re- 
solutely out  into  the  melancholy  autumn  morning  and  was 
gone. 


PART   in 


CHAPTER    I. 


AT  MADAME   MIREBEAU's,    OXFORD   STREET. 


lALF-PAST  four  of  a  delightful  June  afternoon,  and 
two  young  ladies  sit  at  two  large,  lace-draped  win- 
dows, overlooking  a  fashionable  Ma) fair  street,  al- 
ternately glancing  over  the  books  they  hold,  and 
listlessly  watching  the  i)assers-by.  The  house  was  one  of 
those  big  black  VV'est-Eiul  houses,  whose  outward  darkness 
and  disnialness  is  in  direct  ratio  to  their  inward  brilliance 
and  splendor.  This  particular  room  is  lofty  and  long,  luxu- 
rious with  softest  cari)et,  satin  upholstery,  pictures,  llowers, 
and  lace  drajK'ries.  The  two  young  ladies  are,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  their  bonnets,  in  elegant  carriage  costume. 

Youtifi  ladies,  1  have  said  ;  and  being  unmarried,  they  are 
young  ladies,  of  course.  One  of  them,  however,  isthree-and- 
thirty,  counting  by  actual  years — the  iK-erage  gives  it  in  cold 
blood.  It  is  the  Lady  Gwendoline  Drexel.  Her  compan- 
ion is  the  Honorable  Mary  Howard,  just  nineteen,  and  just 
"out." 

I.ady  Gwendoline  yawns  drearily  over  her  book — Alger- 
non Swineburne's  latest — and  pulls  out  her  watch  impa- 
tiently every  few  minutes. 

"  What  can  keep  Portia  ?  "  she  exclaims,  with  irritation. 
"We  should  have  been  gone  the  last  half-hour." 

The  Honorable  Mary  looks  up  from  her  Parisian  fashion- 
book,  and  glances  from  the  window  with  a  smile. 

"Restrain  your  impatience,  Gwendoline,"  she  answers. 
•'  Here  comes  Lady  Portia  now." 


AT  MADAME  MIREDEAU'S. 


321 


A  minute  later  the  door  is  flung  wide  by  a  tall  gentleman 
in  ijliish,  and  Lady  Portia  Hampton  sweeps  in.  She  is  a  tall, 
slender  lady,  very  like  her  sister:  the  SLime  dully  fair  com- 
plexion, the  same  coiffure  of  copper-gold,  the  same  light, 
inane  blue  eyes.  The  dull  complexion  wears  at  this  mo- 
ment an  absolute  flush  ;  the  light,  lack-lustre  eyes  an  absolute 
sparkle.  I'here  is  something  in  her  look  as  she  sails  forward, 
that  makes  them  both  look  up  expectantly  from  their  book.v 

"Well?"   Lady  Gwendoline  says. 

"  Gwen  !  "  her  sister  exclaims — absolutely  exclaims — 
^'■whom  do  you  suppose  I  have  met  ?  " 

"The  Czarina  of  all  the  Russias,  Pio  Nino,  Her  Majesty 
back  from  Osborne,  or  the  Man  in  the  Moon,  perhaps,"  re- 
torts Lady  Gwendoline. 

"  Neither,"  laughs  Lady  Portia.  "  Somebody  a  great  deal 
more  mysterious  and  interesting  than  any  of  them.  You 
never  will  guess  whom." 

"  Being  five  o'clock  of  a  sultry  summer  day,  I  don'tintend 
to  try.     Tell  us  at  once,  Portia,  and  let  us  go." 

"  Then — prepare  to  be  surprised  !    Sir  Victor  Catheron  ! " 

"  Portia  1 " 

"  Ah  !  I  thought  the  name  would  interest  you.  Sir  Victor 
Catheron,  my  dear,  alive  and  in  the  flesh,  though,  upon  my 
word,  at  first  sight  I  almost  took  him  to  be  his  own  ghost. 
Look  at  her,  Mary,"  laughs  her  sister  derisively.  "  1  have 
managed  to  interest  her  alter  all,  have  I  not  ?" 

I'or  Lady  Gwendoline  sat  erect,  her  turquoise  eyes  open 
to  their  widest  extent,  a  look  akin  to  excitement  in  her  apa- 
thetic face. 

"  But,  Portia — Sir  Victor  !  I  thought  it  was  an  understood 
thing  he  did  not  come  to  England?  " 

"  He  does,  it  appears.  1  certainly  had  the  honor  and 
happiness  of  shaking  hands  with  him  not  fifteen  minutes  ago. 
I  was  driving  up  St.  James  Street,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him  on  the  steps  of  Fenton's  Hotel.  At  iirst  sight  1  could 
not  credit  «iy  eyes.  1  had  to  look  again  to  '>?x^  whether  it 
were  a  wraith  or  a  mortal  man.  Such  a  pallid  shadow  of 
his  former  self.  You  used  to  think  him  rather  handsome, 
Gwen — you  should  see  him  now  !  He  has  grown  ten  years 
older  in  as  many  months — his  hair  is  absolutely  streaked 
with  gray,  his  eyes  arc  sunken,  his  cheeks  are  hollow.  He 
14* 


322 


AT  MADAME  MIPEBEACTS. 


looks  miserably,  wretchedly  out  of  Iicallh.  If  men  ever  do 
break  their  hearts,"  said  Lady  Portia,  going  over  to  a  large 
mirror  and  surveying  herself,  "  then  that  misguided  young 
man  broke  his  on  his  wedding-day." 

"  It  serves  him  right,"  said  Lady  Gwendoline,  her  pale 
eyes  kindling.     "I  am  almost  glad  to  hear  it." 

Her  faded  face  wore  a  strangely  sombre  and  vindictive 
look.  Lady  Portia,  with  her  head  on  one  side,  set  her  bon- 
net-strings geometrically  straight,  u.nd  smiled  maliciously. 

"Ah,  no  doubt — perfectly  natural,  all  things  considered. 
And  yet,  even  you  might  pity  the  poor  fellow  to-day,  Gwen- 
doline, if  you  saw  him.  Mary,  dear,  is  all  this  Greek  and 
Hebrew  to  you  ?  You  were  in  your  Parisian  pensionnat,  I 
remember,  when  it  all  happened.  You  don't  know  the  ro- 
mantic and  mysterious  story  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  JJart." 

"  I  never  heard  the  name  before,  that  I  recall,"  answered 
Miss  Howard. 

"Then  pine  in  ignorance  no  longer.  This  young  hero, 
Sir  Victor  Catheron  of  Catheron  Royals,  Cheshire,  is  our 
next-door  neighbor,  down  at  home,  and  one  year  ago  the 
handsome,  happy,  honored  representative  of  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  the  county.  His  income  was  large,  his  es- 
tates unincumbered,  his  manners  charming,  his  morals  un- 
exceptionable, and  half  the  young  ladies  in  Cheshire" — with 
another  malicious  glance  at  her  sister — "  at  daggers-drawn 
for  him.  There  was  the  slight  drawback  of  insanity  in  the 
family — his  father  died  insane,  and  in  his  infancy  his  mother 
was  murdered.  But  these  were  only  trilling  spots  on  the 
sun,  not  worth  a  second  thought.  Our  young  suUan  had 
but  to  throw  the  handkerchief,  and  his  obedient  Circassians 
would  have  flown  on  the  wings  of  love  and  joy  to  pick  it  u|«. 
I  grow  quite  eloquent,  don't  1  ?  In  an  evil  hour,  however, 
poor  young  Sir  Victor — he  was  but  twenty-three — went  over 
to  America.  There,  in  New  York,  he  fell  in  with  a  family 
named  Stuart,  common  rich  people,  of  course,  as  they  all 
are  over  there.  In  the  Stuart  family  there  was  a  young  i)tr- 
son,  a  sort  of  cousin,  a  Miss  Edith  Darrell,  very  poor,  kept 
by  them  out  of  charity  ;  and,  lamentable  to  relate,  widi  this 
young  person  i)oor  Sir  Victor  fell  in  love.  I'cU  in  love,  my 
dear,  in  the  most  approved  oKl-fashioned  style — absurdly 
and  insanely  in  love — brought  the  whole  family  over  to  Che- 


AT  MADAME  MIREDEAITS. 


323 


shire,  proposed  to  litlle  missy,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
was  eagerly  accepted.  Slie  was  an  extremely  pretty  girl, 
that  I  will  say  for  her" — with  a  third  sidelong  glance  of  mal- 
ice at  \\Qx passve  si^^Ler — "  and  her  manners,  considering  her 
station,  or,  rather,  her  entire  lack  of  station,  her  poverty,  and 
her  nationality,  were  someUiing  quite  extraordinary.  I  de- 
clare to  you,  she  positively  held  her  own  with  the  best  of  us 
— excei)t  for  a  certain  bnisqucrie  and  outspoken  wajj  about 
her,  you  might  have  thought  her  an  English  girl  of  our  own 
class.  He  7V0uld  mairy  her,  and  the  wedding-day  was  fixed, 
and  Gwendoline  named  as  chief  of  the  bridemaids." 

"  It  is  fifteen  minutes  past  five,  Portia,"  the  cold  voice 
of  Gwendoline  broke  in.  "  If  we  are  to  drive  at  all  to- 
day—" 

"  Patience,  Gwen  !  patience  one  moment  longer  !  Mary 
must  hear  the  whole  story  now.  In  tiie  Stuart  family,  I  for- 
got to  mention,  there  was  a  young  man,  a  cousin  of  the 
bride-elect,  with  whom  —it  was  patent  to  the  dullest  appre- 
hension— this  young  person  was  in  love.  She  accepted  Sir 
Victor,  you  understand,  while  this  Mr.  Stuart  was  her  lover  ; 
a  common  case  enoi.gh,  and  not  worthy  of  mention  except 
for  what  came  after.  His  manners  were  rarely  perfect  too. 
He  was,  I  think,  without  excei)tion,  the  very  handsomest  and 
most  fascinating  man  I  ever  met.  You  would  never  dream 
— never  ! — that  he  was  an  American.  Gwendoline  will  tell 
you  the  same.  The  sister  was  thoroughly  trans-Atlantic, 
talked  slang,  said  *  I  guess,'  spoke  with  an  accent,  and  looked 
you  through  and  tiirough  with  an  Auieican  girl's  broad 
stare.  The  father  and  mother  were  conimon,  to  a  degree  ; 
but  the  son — well,  Gwen  and  I  both  came  very  near  losing 
our  hearts  to  him — didn't  we,  dear  ?" 

"Speak  for  youiself,"  was  Gwen's  ungracious  answer. 
"And,  oh  !  for  pity's  sake,  Portia,  cut  it  short !" 

"  Pray  go  on.  Lady  Portia  !  "  said  Miss  Howard,  looking 
interested. 

''  I  am  going  on,"  said  Lady  Portia.  "  The  nice  part  is 
to  come.  The  Stuart  family,  a  month  or  more  befoio  the 
wedding,  left  Cheshire  anil  came  up  a  London — why,  we 
can  only  surmise — to  keej)  the  lovers  ai)art.  lunnediately 
after  their  departure,  tlie  brido-elect  was  taken  ill,  and  had 
to  be  carried  off  to  Torquay  for  change  of  air  and   all  that. 


324 


AT  MADAME  MIREDEAUS. 


The  wedding-day  was  postponed  until  some  time  in  October  ; 
but  at  last  it  came.  She  looked  very  beautiful,  I  must  say, 
that  morning,  and  perfectly  self-possessed  ;  but  i)00r  Sir  Vic- 
tor !  He  was  ghastl)'.  Whether  even  then  he  suspected 
something  I  do  not  know  ;  he  looked  a  picture  of  abject 
misery  at  the  altar  and  the  br  ■  -Kfast  Something  was  wrong  ; 
we  all  saw  that;  but  no  ^p  .  ''on  took  place  there.  The 
happy  pair  started  on  thv.  w  ouuig-journey  down  into  Wales, 
and  tliTlt  was  the  last  we  ever  saw  of  (hem.  What  followed, 
we  know ;  but  until  to-day  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  the 
bridegroom.  The  bride,  I  suppose,  none  of  us  will  ever  set 
eyes  on  more." 

"  Why  ?  "  the  Honorable  Mary  asked. 

"This,  my  dear:  An  hour  after  their  arrival  in  Carnar- 
von, Sir  Victor  deserted  his  bride  forever  !  What  passed  be- 
tween them,  what  scene  ensued,  nobody  knows,  only  this — 
he  positively  left  her  forever.  That  the  handsome  and  fas- 
cinating American  cousin  had  something  to  do  with  it,  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  Sir  Victor  took  the  next  train  from  Wales 
to  London  ;  she  remained  overnight.  Next  day  she  had 
the  audacity  to  return  to  Powyss  Place  and  present  herself 


S' 


The 


lained  there  one 
nuffled  and  dis- 
h'd  an  interview 
;•  :  tod  again  with- 
'  .d'^  next  day  had 
-and  next  raorn- 


to  his  aunt.  Lady  Helena  Powyss, 
day  and  two  nights.  On  the  first 
^uised.  Sir  Victor  came  down  fron 
with  his  aunt,  no  doubt  told  her  all, 
out  seeing  the  girl  he  had  married, 
an  interview  with  Lady  Helena — her  last 
ing,  before  any  one  was  stirring,  stole  out  of  the  house  like 
the  guilty  creature  she  was,  and  never  was  heard  of  more. 
The  story,  though  they  tried  to  hush  it  uji,  got  in  .lU  the  pa- 
pers— '  Romance  in  High  Life,'  they  called  it.  Everybody 
talked  of  it — it  was  the  nine-days'  wonder  of  town  and  coun- 
try. The  actors  in  it,  one  by  one,  disappeared.  Lady  Hel- 
ena shut  up  Powyss  Place  and  we'  '  abroad  ;  Sir  Victor  van- 
ished from  the  world's  ken;  th-^  •;  .roine  of  the  piece  no 
doubt  went  back  to  her  native  kit>  1,  That,  In  brief,  is  the 
story,  my  dear,  of  the  interesting  spccjt.c  I  met  to-day  on  the 
steps  of  Fenton's.  Now,  young  ladies,  i)u'.  on  your  bonnets 
and  come.  I  wish  to  call  at  Madame  Mirebeau's,  Oxford 
Str;;et,  before  going  to  the  park,  and  personally  inspect  my 
dress  for  the  duclu  "'  ball  to-night," 


AT  MADAME  MIREBEAV'S. 


m 


Ten  minutes  later  and  the  elegant  barouche  of  Lady  Por- 
tia Hampton  was  bowling  along  to  Oxford  Street. 

"  What  did  you  say  to  Sir  Victor,  Portia  ? "  her  sister 
deigned  to  ask.     "  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  said  very  little  to  me — the  answers  he  gave  were 
the  most  vague.  I  naturally  inquired  concerning  his  health 
first,  he  really  looked  so  wretchedly  broken  down ;  and  he 
said  there  was  nothing  the  matter  that  he  had  been  a  little 
out  of  sorts  lately,  that  was  all.  My  conviction  is,"  said 
Lady  Portia,  who,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  and  the  world, 
put  the  worst  possible  construction  on  everything,  "  that 
he  has  become  dis£i[)atcd.  Purple  circles  and  hollow  eyes 
always  tell  of  late  hours  and  hard  drinking,  I  asked  him 
next  where  he  had  been  all  those  ages,  and  lie  answered 
briefly  and  gloomily,  in  one  word,  '  Abroad.'  I  asked  him 
thirdly,  where,  and  how  was  Lady  Helena  ;  he  replied  that 
Lady  Helena  was  tolerably  well,  and  at  ])resent  in  London. 
'  In  London  ! '  I  exclaimed,  in  a  shocked  tone,  'my  dear  Sir 
Victor,  and  /not  know  it ! '  He  explained  that  his  aunt  was 
living  in  the  closest  retirement,  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in 
the  neighborhood  of  St.  John's  Wood,  and  went  nowhere. 
Then  he  lifted  his  hat,  smiled  horribly  a  ghastly  smile,  turned 
his  back  upon  me,  and  walked  away.  Never  asked  for  you, 
Crwendoline,  or  Colonel  Hampton,  or  my  health,  or  any- 
thing." 

Lady  (Jwendoline  did  not  reply.  They  had  just  entered 
Oxford  Street,  and  amid  the  moving  throng  of  well-dressed 
people  on  the  i)avement,  her  eye  had  singled  out  one  figure 
— the  figure  of  a  tall,  slender,  fair-haired  man, 

"Portia!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  sn])pressed  voice,  "look 
there  !     Is  not  that  Sir  Victor  Catheron  now?  " 

"  Where  ?  Oh,  I  see.  Positively  it  is,  and — yes — he  sees 
us.  Tell  John  to  draw  up,  Gwendoline.  Now,  Mary,  you 
shall  see  a  hvc  hero  of  romance  for  once  in  your  life.  He 
shall  take  a  seat,  whether  he  likes  it  or  not —  My  dcar'>\x 
Victor,  what  a  happy  second  rencontre,  and  Gwendoline 
dying  to  see  you.  Pray  let  us  take  you  up — oh,  we  will  have 
no  refusal.  We  have  an  unoccupied  seat  here,  )ou  see,  and 
we  all  insist  upon  your  occupying  it.  Miss  Howard,  let  me 
present  our  nearest  neighbor  at  home,  and  particular  friend 


326 


AT  MADAME  MIREBEAIPS. 


everywhere,  Sir  Victor  Catheron.  The  Honorable  Miss 
Howard,  Sir  Victor." 

They  had  drawn  up  close  to  the  curbstone.  The  gentle- 
man had  doffed  his  hat,  and  would  have  passed  on,  had  he 
not  been  taken  possession  of  in  this  summary  manner. 
Lady  Gwendoline's  primrose-kidded  hand  was  extended  to 
him,  Lady  Gwendoline's  smiling  face  beamed  upon  him  from 
the  most  exquisite  oi  Parisian  bonnets.  Miss  Howard 
bowed  and  scanned  him  curiously.  Lady  Portia  was  not  to 
be  refused — he  knew  that  of  old.  Of  two  bores,  it  was  the 
lesser  bore  to  yield  than  resist.  Another  instant,  and  the 
barouche  was  rolling  away  to  Madame  Mirebeau's,  and  Sir 
Victor  Catheron  was  within  it.  He  sat  by  Lady  Gwendo- 
line's side,  and  under  the  shadow  of  her  rose-silk  and  point- 
lace  parasol  she  could  sec  for  herself  how  shockingly  he  was 
changed.  Her  sister  had  not  exaggerated.  He  was  worn 
to  a  shadow ;  his  fair  hair  was  streaked  with  gray  ;  his  lips 
were  set  in  a  tense  expression  of  suffering — either  physical 
or  mental — perha[)s  both.  His  blue  eyes  looked  sunken 
and  lustreless.  It  was  scarcely  to  be  believed  that  ten  short 
months  could  have  wrought  such  wreck.  He  talked  little — 
his  resi)onses  to  their  questions  were  monosyllabic.  His 
eyes  constantly  wandered  away  from  their  faces  to  the  pass- 
ers-by. He  had  the  look  of  a  man  ever  on  the  alert,  ever 
on  the  watch — waiting  and  watching  for  some  one  he  could 
not  see.  Miss  Howard  had  never  seen  him  before,  but 
from  the  depths  of  her  heart  she  pitied  him.  Sorrow,  such  as 
rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of  man,  had  fallen  to  this  man,  she  knew. 

He  was  discouragingly  absent  and  disirait.  It  came  out 
by  chance  that  the  chief  part  of  the  past  ten  months  had 
been  spent  by  him  in  America. 

In  America !  The  sisters  exchanged  glances.  She  was 
there,  no  doubt.  Had  they  met  ?  was  the  thought  of  both. 
They  reached  the  fashionable  modiste's. 

"  You  will  come  in  with  us,  Sir  Victor,''  Lady  Portia 
commanded  gayly.  "  We  all  have  business  here,  but  we 
will  only  detain  you  a  moment." 

He  gave  her  his  arm  to  the  shop.  It  was  large  and  ele- 
gant, and  three  or  four  deferential  shop-women  came  forward 
to  wait  uj^on  fheiii  and  place  seats.  The  victimized  baro- 
net, still  listless  and  bored,  sat  down  to  wait  and  escort  them 


AT  MADAME  MIREBEAiPS. 


3i27 


back  to  the  carriage  before  taking  his  departure.  To  be 
exhibited  in  the  park  was  the  farthest  possible  from  his  in- 
tention. 

Lady  Portia's  dress  was  displayed — a  rose  velvet,  with 
point-lace  trimmings — and  found  fault  with,  of  course. 
Lady  Gwendoline  and  the  Hon.  Mary  transacted  their  aft'airs 
at  a  little  distance.  For  her  elder  ladyship  the  train  did  not 
suit  her,  the  bodice  did  not  please  her;  she  gave  her  orders 
for  altering  sharply  and  concisely.  The  deferential  shop- 
girl listened  and  wrote  the  directions  down  on  a  card. 
When  her  patroness  had  finished  she  carried  robe  and  card 
down  the  long  room  and  called : 

"  Miss  Stuart  I  " 

A  voice  answered — only  one  word,  "  Yes,"  softly  spoken, 
but  Sir  Victor  Catheron  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  The 
long  show-room  lay  in  semi-twilight — the  gas  not  yet  lit.  In 
this  twilight  another  girl  advanced,  took  the  rose-velvet 
robe  and  written  card.  The  light  flashed  upon  her  figure 
and  hair  for  one  instant — then  she  disappeared. 

And  Sir  Victor  ? 

He  sat  like  a  man  suddenly  aroused  from  a  deep,  long 
sleep.  He  had  not  seen  the  face  ;  he  had  caught  but  a 
glimpse  of  the  figure  and  head ;  he  had  heard  the  voice 
speak  but  one  little  word,  "  Yes  ;  "  but — 

Was  he  asleep  or  awake  ?  Was  it  only  a  delusion,  as  so 
mary  other  fancied  resemblances  had  been,  or  was  it  after 
all — after  all — 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  that  dazed  look  of  a  sleep-walker, 
suddenly  aroused,  on  his  face. 

"  Now,  then.  Sir  Victor,"  the  sharp,  clear  voice  of  Lady 
Portia  said,  at  his  side,  "your  martyrdom  is  ended.  We 
are  ready  to  go." 

He  led  her  to  the  carriage,  assisted  her  and  the  young 
ladies  in.  How  he  excused  himself — what  incoherent  words 
he  said — he  never  knew.  He  was  only  conscious  after  a 
minute  that  the  carriage  had  rolled  away,  and  that  he  was 
still  standing,  hat  in  hand,  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
Madame  Mirebeau's;  that  the  passers-by  were  staring  at 
him,  and  that  he  was  alone. 

"  Mad  !  "  Lady  Portia  said,  shrugging  her  shoulders  and 
touching  her  forehead.    "J\Iad  as  a  March  hare  !  " 


328 


AT  MADAME  MIREBEAVS. 


"Mad?"  Miss  Floward  repeated  softly.  "  Xo,  I  don't 
think  so.     Not  mad,  only  very — very  niisi;rable.*' 

He  replaced  his  liat  and  walked  back  to  the  shop-door. 
There  reason,  memory  returned.  What  was  he  going  in 
for  ?  What  should  he  say  ?  He  stood  still  suddenly,  as 
though  gazing  at  the  wax  women  in  elegant  ball  costume, 
swinging  slowly  and  sniirkingly  round  and  round.  He  had 
heard  a  voice — he  had  seen  a  shapely  head  croimed  with 
dark,  silken  hair — a  tall,  slender  girl's  figure— that  was  all. 
He  had  seen  and  heard  such  a  hundred  limes  since  that  fatal 
wedding  evening,  and  when  he  had  hunted  them  down,  the 
illusion  had  vanished,  and  his  lost  love  was  a«;  lost  as  ever. 
His  lost  Edith — his  bride,  his  darling,  the  wife  he  had 
loved  and  left — for  whom  all  those  weary,  endless  months 
he  had  been  searching  and  searching  in  vain.  Was  she  liv- 
ing or  dead  ?  Was  she  in  London — in  England — where  i 
He  did  not  know — no  one  knew.  Since  tl-iat  dark,  cold 
autumn  morning  when  she  had  fled  from  Powysa  Place  she 
had  never  been  seen  or  heard  of.  She  had  kept  her  word — 
she  had  taken  nothing  that  was  his — not  a  farlbing.  Wher- 
ever she  was,  she  might  be  starving  to-day.  He  clenched  his 
hands  and  teeth  as  he  thought  of  it. 

"Oh!"  his  passionate,  despairing  heart  cried,  "let  me 
find  her — let  me  save  her,  and — let  me  die  ] " 

He  had  searched  for  her  everywhere,  by  night  and  by  day. 
Money  flowed  like  water — all  in  vain.  He  went  to  New 
York — he  found  the  people  there  he  had  once  known,  but 
none  of  them  could  tell  him  anything  of  her  or  the  Stuarts. 
The  Stuarts  had  failed,  were  utterly  ruined — it  %vas  under- 
stood that  Mr.  Stuart  was  dead — of  the  others  they  knew 
nothing.  He  went  to  Sandypoint  in  search  of  her  father. 
Mr.  Darrell  and  his  family  had  months  ago  sold  out  and 
gone  West.  He  could  fine  none  of  them ;  he  gave  it  up  at 
length  and  returned  to  England.  Ten  montiis  had  [massed  ; 
many  resemblances  had  beguiled  him,  but  to-day  Ekiith  was 
as  far  off,  as  lost  as  ever. 

The  voice  he  had  heard,  the  likeness  he  had  seen,  would 
they  prove  false  and  empty  too,  and  leave  his  heart  more 
bitter  than  ever  ?  What  he  would  do  7i'hc:i  he  fouiui  her  he 
dill  not  consider.  He  only  wanted  to  find  her.  His  whole 
heart,  and  life,  and  soul  were  bound  up  in  liiaL 


AT  MADAME  MIREBEAVS. 


329 


He  paced  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  sho])  ;  the  day's 
work  would  be  over  presently  and  the  work-women  woiikl 
come  forth.  Then  he  would  see  again  this  particular  work- 
woman who  had  set  his  heart  beating  with  a  hope  that 
turned  him  dizzy  and  sick.  Six  o'clock  !  seven  o'clock  ! 
AVould  they  never  come  ?  Yes  ;  even  as  he  thought  it,  half 
mad  with  impatience,  the  door  opened,  and  nearly  a  dozen 
girls  filed  forth.  He  drew  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  he  kept  a 
little  in  the  shadow  and  watched  them  one  by  one  with 
wildly  eager  eyes  as  they  appeared.  Four,  five,  six,  seven — 
she  came  at  last,  the  eighth.  The  tall,  slender  figure,  the 
waving,  dark  hair,  he  knew  them  at  once.  The  gaslight 
fell  full  upon  her  as  she  drew  her  veil  over  her  face  and 
walked  rapidly  away.  Not  before  he  had  seen  it,  not  before 
he  had  recognized  it — no  shadow,  no  myth,  no  illusion  this 
time.     His  wife — Edith. 

He  caught  the  wall  for  support.  For  a  moment  the  pave- 
ment beneath  his  feet  heaved,  the  starry  sky  spun  round. 
Then  he  started  up,  steadied  himself  by  a  mighty  effort,  and 
lunried  in  pursuit. 

She  had  gained  upon  him  over  thirty  yards.  She  was  al- 
ways a  rapid  walker,  and  he  was  ailing  and  weak.  His 
heart  throbbed  now,  so  thick  and  fast,  that  every  breath  was 
a  pain.  He  did  not  gain  upon  her,  he  only  kept  her  in 
sight.  He  would  have  known  that  quick,  deci(led  walk, 
the  poise  of  the  head  and  shoulders,  anywhere.  He  followed 
her  as  fast  as  his  strength  and  the  throng  of  jmssers-by 
would  let  him,  yet  doing  no  more  than  keeping  her  well  in 
sight. 

WHiere  Oxford  Street  nears  Tottenham  Court  Road  she 
suddenly  diverged  and  crossed  over,  turning  into  the  latter 
crowded  thoroughfare.  Still  he  followed.  The  throng  was 
even  more  dense  here  than  in  Oxford  Street,  to  keep  her  in 
sight  more  difficult.  For  nearly  ten  minutes  he  did  it,  then 
suddenly  all  strength  left  him.  For  a  minute  or  two  be  felt 
as  though  he  must  fall.  There  was  a  spasm  of  the  heart 
that  was  like  a  knife-thrust.  He  caught  at  a  lanip-jiost. 
He  beckoned  a  passing  hansom  by  a  sort  of  expiring  eifoit. 
The  cab  whirled  up  beside  him  ;  he  got  in  somehow,  and 
fell  back,  blinded  and  di^zy,  in  the  seat. 

"  Where  to,  sir  ?  "    Cabby  called  twice  before  he  received 


330 


EDITH. 


an  answer;  then  "Kenton's  Hotel"  came  faintly  to  him 
from  his  ghostly  looking  fare.  The  little  aperture  at  the  top 
was  slammed  clown,  and  the  hansom  rattled  off. 

"Blessed  if  I  don't  think  the  young  swell's  drunk,  or  'av- 
ing  a  fit,"  thought  the  Cad,  as  he  speeded  his  horse  down 
Tottenham  Court  Road. 

To  look  for  her  further  in  his  present  state,  Sir  Victor  felt 
would  be  useless.  He  must  get  to  his  lodgings,  get  some 
brandy,  and  half-an-hour's  time  to  think  what  to  do  next. 
He  had  found  her ;  she  was  alive,  she  was  well,  thank 
Heaven  !  thank  Heaven  for  that !  To-morrow  would  find 
her  again  at  Madame  Mirebeau's  at  work  with  the  rest. 

At  work — her  daily  toil  !  He  covered  his  wasted  face 
with  his  wasted  hands,  and  tears  that  were  like  a  woman's 
fell  from  him.  He  had  been  weak  and  worn  out  for  a  long 
time — he  gave  way  utterly,  body  and  mind,  now. 

"  My  darling,"  he  sobbed ;  "  my  darling  whom  I  would 
die  to  make  happy — whose  life  I  have  so  utterly  ruined. 
To  tliink  that  while  I  spend  wealth  like  water,  you  should 
toil  for  a  crust  of  bread — alone,  poor,  friendless,  in  this  great 
city.  How  will  I  answer  to  God  and  man  for  what  I  have 
done  ?  " 


CHAPTER    II. 


EDITH. 


HE  last  night  of  the  July  day  had  faded  out,  and  a 

hot,  murky  night  settled  down  over  London.     The 

air  was  stilling  in  the  city ;  out  in  the  suburbs  you 

still  caught  a  breath,  fresh  and  sweet  scented,  from 

the  fragrant  fields 

At  Poplar  Lodge,  St.  John's  Wood,  this  murky,  summer 
night  all  the  windows  stood  wide.  In  the  drawing-room 
two  women  sat  together.  The  elder  reading  aloud,  tlic 
younger  busy  over  some  feminine  handicraft.  A  cluster  of 
waxlights  burned  above  them,  shining  full  on  two  pale,  worn 
faces — the  faces  of  women  to  whom  suffering  and  sorrow 


EDITH. 


331 


have  long  been  household  words.  Both  wore  deepest 
mourning — the  elder  a  widow's  weeds,  the  hair  of  the  younger 
thickly  streaked  with  gray.  Now  and  then  both  raised  their 
eyes  from  a  book  and  needlework,  and  glanced  expectantly 
at  the  clock  on  the  mantel.  Evidently  they  waited  for 
some  one  who  did  not  come.  They  were  Lady  Helena 
Powyss  and  Inez  Catheron,  of  course. 

"  Eight,"  the  elder  woman  said,  laying  down  her  book  with 
a  sigh  as  the  clock  struck.  "  If  lie  were  coming  to-night  he 
would  be  here  before  now." 

"  I  don't  give  him  up  even  yet,"  Inez  answered  cheerfully. 
*'  Young  .nen  are  not  to  be  depended  on,  and  he  has  often 
come  out  much  later  than  this.  We  are  but  dull  company 
for  him,  poor  boy — all  the  world  are  but  dull  company  for 
him  at  present,  since  she  is  not  of  them.  Poor  boy  !  poor 
Victor  !  it  is  very  hard  on  him." 

"  1  begin  to  think  Edith  will  never  be  found,"  said  Lady 
Helena  with  a  sigh. 

"  My  dear  aunt,  I  don't.  No  one  is  ever  lost,  utterly,  in 
these  days.     She  will  be  found,  believe  me,  unless — " 

"Well?" 

"  Unless  she  is  dead." 

"  She  is  not  dead,"  affirmed  Lady  Helena ;  "  of  that  I  am 
sure.  You  didn't  know  her,  Inez,  or  you  wouldn't  think  it ; 
the  most  superb  specimen  of  youth  and  strength  and  hand- 
some health  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  She  told  me  once  she 
never  remembered  a  sick  day  since  she  was  born — you  had 
but  to  look  into  her  bright  eyes  and  clear  complexion  to  be 
sure  of  it.  She  is  not  dead,  in  the  natural  course  of  things, 
and  she  isn't  one  of  the  kind  that  ever  take  their  lives  in  their 
own  hands.  She  had  too  much  courage  and  too  much  com- 
mon-sense." 

"  Perhaps  so,  and  yet  suffering  tells — look  at  poor  Victor." 

•'  Ah,  poor  Victor  indeed  !  But  the  case  is  different — it 
was  only  her  pride,  not  her  heart,  that  bled.  He  loved  her 
— he  loves  her  with  a  blind,  unreasoning  passion  that  it  is  a 
^misfortune  for  any  human  creature  to  feel  for  another.  And 
she  never  cared  for  him — not  as  nnich  as  you  do  for  the  sew- 
ing in  your  hand.  That  is  what  breaks  my  heart — to  see 
him  dying  before  my  eyes  for  love  of  a  girl  who  has  no  feel- 
ing for  him  but  hatred  and  contempt." 


333 


EDITH. 


Inez  sighed. 

"  It  is  natural,"  she  said.  "Think  how  she  was  left — in 
her  very  bridal  hour,  without  one  word  of  explanation.  Who 
could  forgive  it  ?  " 

"  No  one,  perhaps  ;  it  is  not  for  that  I  feel  indignant  with 
her.  It  is  for  her  ever  accepting  him  at  all.  She  loved  her 
cousin — he  would  have  married  her ;  and  for  title  and  wealth 
she  threw  him  over  and  accepted  Victor.  In  that  way  she 
deserved  her  fate.  She  acted  heartlessly  ;  and  yet,  one  can't 
help  pitying  her  too.  I  believe  she  would  have  done  her 
best  to  make  him  a  good  wife,  after  all.  I  wish — I  wish  he 
could  find  her." 

"  She  might  be  found  readily  enough,"  Inez  answered, 
*' if  Victor  would  but  employ  the  usual  means — I  allude,  of 
course,  to  the  detective  police.  But  he  won't  set  a  detective 
on  her  track  if  she  is  never  found — he  persists  in  looking  for 
her  himself.  He  is  wearing  his  life  out  in  the  search.  If 
ever  I  saw  death  pictured  on  any  face,  I  saw  it  in  his  when 
he  was  here  last.  If  he  would  but  consult  that  German 
doctor  who  is  now  in  London,  and  who  is  so  skilful  in  all 
diseases  of  the  heart — hark  ! "  she  broke  off  suddenly, 
"  here  he  is  at  last." 

Far  off  a  gate  had  opened  and  shut — no  one  had  a  key  to 
that  ever-locked  outer  gate  but  Sir  Victor,  and  the  next 
moment  the  roll  of  his  night-cab  up  the  drive  was  heard. 
The  house-door  opened,  his  familiar  step  ascended  the 
stairs,  not  heavy  and  dragging  as  usual,  but  swift  and  light, 
almost  as  it  used  to  be.  Something  had  happened  !  They 
saw  it  in  his  face  at  the  first  glance.  There  was  but  one 
thing  that  could  happ jn.  Lady  Helena  dropped  her  book, 
Inez  started  to  her  feet ;  neither  spoke,  both  waited  breathless. 

"Aunt!  cousin!"  the  young  man  cried,  breathless  and 
hoarse,  "  she  is  found  I  " 

There  was  a  cry  from  his  aunt.  As  he  spoke  he  dropped, 
panting  and  exhausted  with  his  speed,  into  a  chair  and  laid 
his  hand  upon  his  breast  to  still  its  heavy,  suffocating  throbs. 

"  Found  !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Helena  ;  "  where — when — 
how  ?  " 

"  Wait,  aunt,"  the  voice  of  Inez  said  gently  ;  "  give  him 
time.  Don't  you  see  he  can  scarcely  pant?  Not  a  word 
yet  Victor — let  me  fetch  you  a  glass  of  wine." 


EDITH. 


333 


She  brought  it  and  he  drank  it.  His  Hxco  was  quite 
ghastly,  HvicT,  bhiish  rings  encirding  his  mouth  and  eyes, 
lie  certainly  looked  desperately  ill,  and  more  fitted  for  a 
sick-bed  than  a  breathless  night  ride  from  St.  James  Street 
to  St.  John's  Wood.  He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  closL-d  iiis 
eyes,  struggled  with  his  panting  breath.  Tliey  sat  and  waited 
in  silence,  far  more  coricerned  for  him  than  for  the  news  he 
bore. 

He  told  them  at  last,  slowly,  painfully,  of  his  chance 
meeting  with  Lady  Portia  Hampton,  of  liis  enforced  visit  to 
the  Oxford  Street  dress-maker — of  his  glimi)se  of  the  tall  girl 
with  the  dark  hair — of  his  waiting,  of  his  seeing,  and  recog- 
nizing Edith,  his  following  her,  and  of  his  sudden  gid.Iy  faint- 
ness  that  obliged  him  to  give  up  the  chase. 

"  You'll  think  me  an  awful  muff,"  he  said  ;  "  I  haven't  an 
idea  how  I  came  to  be  such  a  moUicoddle,  but  1  give  you 
my  word  I  fainted  dead  away  like  a  school-girl  when  I  got 
to  my  room.  I  suppose  it  was  partly  this  confounded  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart,  and  partly  the  shock  of  the  great  sur- 
prise and  joy.  Jamison  brought  me  all  right  somehow,  after 
awhile,  and  then  I  came  here.  I  had  to  do  something,  or  I 
believe  T  should  have  gone  clear  out  cf  my  senses." 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  The  two  women  looked  at  each 
other,  then  at  him,  his  eager  eyes,  his  excited,  wild-looking, 
haggard  face. 

"  Well,"  he  cried  impatiently,  "have  you  nothing  to  say  ? 
Is  it  nothing  to  you  that  after  all  these  months — months — 
great  Heavens  I  it  seems  centu^es.  But  I  have  found  her 
at  last — toiling  for  her  living,  wiiile  we — oh  !  1  can't  think 
of  it — I  dare  not ;  it  drives  me  mad  !  " 

He  sprang  up  and  began  pacing  to  and  fro,  looking  quite 
as  much  like  a  madman  as  a  sane  one. 

"  Be  quiet,  Victor,"  his  aunt  said.  "  It  is  madness  in- 
deed for  you  to  excite  yourself  in  this  way.  Of  course  we 
rejoice  in  all  that  makes  you  happy.  She  is  found — Heaven 
be  praised  for  it ! — she  is  alive  and  well — thank  Heaven  also 
for  that.     And  now — what  next?" 

"  What  next?"  He  paused  and  looked  at  her  in  aston- 
ishment. "  You  ask  what  next  ?  What  next  can  there  be, 
except  to  go  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning  and  take  her 
away." 


334 


EDITH. 


"Take  her  away!"  Lady  Helena  repeated,  setting  her 
lips  ;  "  take  her  ivhere,  Victor  ?     To  you  ?  " 

His  ghastly  face  turned  a  shade  ghastlier.  He  caught  his 
breath  and  grasped  the  back  of  the  chair  as  though  a  spasm 
of  unendurable  agony  had  pierced  his  heart.  In  an  instant 
his  aunt's  arms  were  about  him,  tears  streaming  down  her 
cheeks,  her  imploring  eyes  lifted  to  his  : 

"  Forgive  me,  Victor,  forgive  me !  I  ought  not  to  have 
asked  you  that.  But  1  did  not  mean — 1  know  that  can 
never  be,  my  poor  boy  I  will  do  whatever  you  say.  I 
will  go  to  her,  of  cou*-  -I  will  fetch  her  here  if  she  will 
come." 

"  If  she  will  come  i  i»e  repeated  hoarsely,  disengaging 
himself  from  her  ;  "  what  do  you  mean  by  iff  There  can  be 
no  '  if  in  the  matter.  She  is  my  wife — she  is  I.ady  Cather- 
on — do  you  think  she  is  to  be  left  penniless  and  alone  drudg- 
ing for  the  bread  she  eats  ?  I  tell  you,  you  must  bring  her  ; 
she  must  come  ! " 

His  passionate,  suppressed  excitement  terrified  her.  In 
pain  and  fear  and  helplessness  she  looked  at  her  niece. 
Inez,  with  that  steady  self-possession  that  is  born  of  long 
and  great  endurance,  came  to  the  rescue  at  once. 

"  Sit  down,  Victor  I  "  her  full,  firm  tones  said,  "  and 
don't  work  yourself  up  to  this  pitch  of  nervous  excitement. 
It's  folly — useless  folly,  and  its  end  will  be  jirostration  and 
a  sick-bed.  About  your  wife.  Aunt  Helena  will  do  what  she 
can,  but — what  can  she  do  ?  You  have  no  authority  over 
her  now ;  in  leaving  her  you  resigned  it.  It  is  unutterably 
painful  to  speak  of  this,  but  under  the  circumstances  we  must. 
She  refused  with  scorn  everything  you  offered  her  before ; 
unless  these  ten  past  months  have  greatly  altered  her,  she 
will  refuse  again.  She  seems  to  have  been  a  very  proud, 
high-spirited  girl,  but  her  hard  struggle  with  the  world  may 
have  beaten  down  that — and — " 

"  Don't  I  "  he  cried  passionately  ;  "  I  can't  bear  it.  O 
my  Ciod !  to  think  what  I  have  done — what  I  have  been 
forced  to  do  !  what  I  have  made  her  suffer — what  she  must 
think  of  me — and  that  I  live  to  bear  it !  To  think  I  have 
endured  it  all,  when  a  pistol-ball  would  have  ended  my  tor- 
ments any  day ! " 

"  When  you  talk  such  wicked  folly  as  that,"  said  Inez 


EDITH. 


335 


Cathcron,  her  strong,  steady  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  "  I 
have  no  more  to  say.  You  did  your  duty  once  :  you  acted 
hke  a  hero,  Hke  a  martyr — it  seems  .1  pity  to  spoil  it  all  by 
such  cowardly  rant  as  this." 

"  My  duty  !  "  he  exclaimed,  huskily.  "Was  it  my  duty  ? 
Sometimes  1  doubt  it ;  sometimes  I  think  if  I  had  never  left 
her,  all  might  have  been  well.  Was  it  my  duty  to  make  my 
life  a  hell  on  earth,  to  tear  my  heart  from  my  bosom,  as  I 
did  in  the  hour  I  left  her,  to  spoil  her  life  for  her,  to  bring 
shame,  reproach,  ,ind  poverty  upon  her  ?  If  I  had  not  left 
her,  could  tlie  worst  that  might  have  happened  been  any 
worse  than  that  ?  " 

"  Much  worse — infinitely  worse.  You  are  the  sufferer, 
believe  me,  not  she.  Wiiat  is  all  she  has  undergone  in  com- 
parison witli  wh'iX.you  have  endured  ?  And  one  day  she  will 
know  all,  and  love  and  honor  you  as  you  deserve." 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  turned  away  from  the 
light. 

"One  day,"  they  heard  him  murmur;  "one  day — the  day 
of  my  death.     Pray  Heaven  it  may  be  soon." 

"  I  think,"  Inez  said  after  a  pause,  "you  had  better  let  me 
go  and  speak  instead  of  Aunt  Helena.  She  has  undergone 
so  much — she  isn't  able,  believe  me,  Victor,  to  undergo  more. 
Let  me  go  to  your  wife ;  all  Aunt  Helena  can  say,  all  she 
can  urge,  I  will.  If  it  be  in  human  i)Ower  to  bring  her  back, 
I  will  bring  her.  All  I  dare  tell  her,  I  will  tell.  But,  after 
all,  it  is  so  little,  and  she  is  so  proud.  Don't  hope  too 
nuich." 

"  It  is  so  little,"  he  murmured  again,  his  face  still  hidden  ; 
"  so  little,  and  there  is  so  much  to  tell.  Oh ! "  he  broke 
forth,  with  a  jiassionate  cry,  "  I  can't  bear  this  much  longer. 
If  she  will  come  for  nothing  else,  she  will  come  for  the 
truth,  and  the  truth  shall  be  told.  What  are  a  thousand 
l)romises  to  the  living  or  the  dead  to  the  knowledge  that  she 
hates  and  scorns  me  !  " 

They  said  nothing  to  him — they  knew  it  was  useless — 
they  knew  his  paroxysm  would  pass,  as  so  many  others  had 
passed,  and  that  by  to-morrow  he  would  be  the  last  to  wish 
to  tell. 

"  You  will  surely  not  think  of  returning  to  St.  James  Street 


336 


EDITH. 


to-night?"  said  Inez  by  way  of  diversion,  "You  will  re- 
main here,  and  at  the  earliest  possible  hour  to-morrow  you 
will  drive  nie  to  Oxford  Street.  I  will  do  all  I  can — you 
believe  that,  my  cousin,  1  know.  And  if — if  I  am  success- 
ful, will  " — she  paused  and  looked  at  him — "  will  you  meet 
her,  Victor  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  yet;  my  head  is  in  a  wliirl.  To-night  I 
feel  as  though  I  could  do  anything,  brave  anything — to- 
morrow I  suppose  I  will  feel  differently.  Don't  ask  me 
what  1  will  do  to-morrow  until  to-morrow  comes.  I  will  re- 
main all  night,  and  I  will  go  to  my  room  at  once  ;  I  feel 
dazed  and  half  sick.     Good-night." 

He  left  them  abruptly.  They  heard  him  toil  wearily  up 
to  his  room  and  lock  the  door.  I>ong  a  er,  the  two  women 
sat  together  talking  with  pale,  apprehensive  faces. 

"  She  won't  come — I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  that  I  sit  here," 
were  Lady  Helena's  parting  words  as  they  separated  for  the 
night.  "  I  know  her  better  than  he  does,  and  I  am  not 
carried  away  by  his  wild  hopes.     She  will  not  come." 

Sir  Victor  descended  to  breakfast,  looking  unutterably 
pallid  And  haggard  in  the  morning  light.  Well  he  might ; 
he  had  not  slept  for  one  moment. 

But  he  was  more  composed,  calm,  and  quiet,  and  there 
was  almost  as  litde  hoi)e  in  his  heart  as  in  I^ady  Helena's. 
Inmiediately  after  breakfast.  Miss  Catheron,  closely  veiled, 
entered  the  cab  with  him,  and  was  driven  to  Oxford  Street. 
]t  was  a  very  silent  drive;  she  was  glad*  when  it  was 
over,  and  he  set  her  down  near  the  shop  of  Madame  Mire- 
beau. 

"  I  will  wait  here,"  he  said.  "If  she  will  come  with  you, 
you  will  take -a  cab  and  drive  back  to  Poplar  Lodge.  If  she 
does  not — "  he  had  to  pause  a  monunit — "  then  return  to 
me,  and  I  will  take  you  home." 

She  bent  her  head  in  assent,  and  entered  the  *hop.  Her 
own  heart  was  beating  at  the  thoiiglit  of  the  coming  inter- 
view and  its  probable  ending.  She  advanced  to  the  counter, 
and,  without  raising  her  veil,  inquired  if  Miss  Stuart  were 
come. 

The  girl  looked  inquisitively  at  the  hidden  face,  and  an- 
swered :  ; 

"  Yes,  Miss  Stuart  had  come." 


EDITH. 


337 


"  I  wish  to  see  her  particularly,  and  in  private,  for  a  few 
mom  nts.     Can  you  manage  it  for  me?" 

She  slipped  a  sovereign  into  the  shopwoman's  hand. 
There  was  a  second  curious  look  at  the  tall,  veiled  lady,  but 
the  sovereign  was  accepted.  A  side  door  opened,  and  she 
was  shown  into  an  empiy  room. 

"  You  can  wait  here,  ma'am,"  the  girl  said.  "  I'll  send 
her  to  you." 

Miss  Cutheron  walked  over  to  the  window  ;  that  nervous 
heart  beat  quicker  than  ever.  When  had  she  been  nervous 
b'ifore  ?  The  window  overlooked  busy,  bright  Oxford  .Street, 
and  in  the  distance  she  saw  the  waiting  cab  and  her  cousin's 
solitary  figure.  The  sight  gave  her  courage.  For  his  sake, 
poor  fellow,  she  would  do  all  human  i)ower  could  do. 

"  You  wish  to  see  me,  madame  ?  " 

A  clear,  soft  voice  spoke.  The  door  had  quietly  opened 
and  a  y^ung  girl  entered. 

Inez  Catlieron  turned  round,  and  for  the  second  time  ir» 
her  life  looked  in  the  face  of  her  cousin's  wife. 

Yes,  it  was  his  wife.  The  face  she  had  seen  under  the 
trees  of  Povvyss  Place  she  saw  again  to  day  in  the  I.ondon 
milliner's  parlor.  The  same  darkly  handsome,  quietly  reso- 
lute young  ficc,  the  same  gravely  beautiful  eyes,  the  same 
slender,  graceful  figure,  the  same  silky  waves  of  blackish- 
brown  hair.  To  her  eyes  there  was  no  cliange  ;  she  had 
grown  neither  thinner  nor  paler  ;  she  had  lost  none  of  the 
beauty  and  fj;iace  that  had  won  away  Sir  Victor  Catheron's 
heart.  She  'vas  very  plainly  dressed  in  dark  gray  of  some 
cheaj)  mr-'erial,  but  fitting  perfectly;  lin«n  bands  at  neck 
and  throat,  and  a  knot  of  cherry  ribbon.  And  the  slim 
finger  wore  no  wedding-ring.  Siie  took  it  all  in,  in  three 
seconds  ;  then  she  advanced. 

"  I  wished  to  see  you.  We  are  not  likely  to  be  dis- 
turbed ?  " 

'•  W^e  are  likely  to  be  disturbed  at  any  moment.  It  is 
the  room  where  Madame  Mirebeau  tries  on  the  dresses  of 
her  customers  ;  and  my  time  is  very  limited." 

'I'he  dark,  grave  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  close  veil  ex- 
pectantly.    Inez  Catheron  threw  it  back. 

"Edith!"  she  said — and  at  the  sound  of  her  name  lh« 
15 


338 


EDITH. 


girl  recoiled — "you  don't  know  me,  but  I  think  yoii  will 
know  my  name.     I  am  Inez  Catheion." 

She  recoiled  a  step  farther,  her  dark  face  paHng  and  grow- 
ing set — her  large  eyes  seeming  to  darken  and  dilate — her 
lips  setting  themselves  in  a  tense  line.  "  WellV^  was  all 
she  said. 

Inez  stretched  out  her  hands  with  an  imploring  gesture, 
drawing  near  as  the  other  retreated. 

"  Oh,  Edith,  you  know  why  I  have  come  !  you  know  who 
has  sent  me.     You  know  what  I  have  come  for." 

The  dark,  deep  eyes  met  hers,  full,  cold,  hard,  and  bright 
as  diamonds. 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  you  have  come  for.  I 
haven't  an  idea  who  can  liave  sent  you.  I  know  who  you 
are.     You  are  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  cousin." 

Without  falter  or  flinch  she  spoke  his  name — with  a  face 
of  stone  she  waited  for  the  answer.  If  any  hojie  had  lin- 
gered in  the  breast  of  Inez  it  died  out  as  she  looked  at  her 
now. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  sadly  ;  "  I  am  Victor  Catheron's  cousin, 
and  there  could  be  but  one  to  send  me  here — Victor  Cath- 
eron  himself." 

"And  why  ha^  Sir  Victor  Catheron  given  you  that 
trouble?" 

"  Oh,  Edith  !  "  again  that  imploring  gesture,  "  let  me  call 
you  so — need  you  ask?  All  these  months  he  has  been 
searching  for  you,  losing  health  and  rest  in  the  fruiUcss 
quest — wearing  himself  to  a  very  shadow  looking  for  you. 
He;  has  been  to  New  York,  he  has  hunted  London — it  has 
brought  him  almost  to  the  verge  of  death,  this  long,  vain, 
miserajjle  search." 

Her  (perfect  lips  curled  scornfully,  her  eyes  shot  forth 
gleams  of  contempt,  but  her  voice  was  very  quiet. 

•'  And  again  1  ask  why — why  has  Sir  Victor  Catheron 
given  himself  all  this  unnecessary  trouble?" 

"  Unnecessary  !  You  call  it  that !  A  husband's  search 
for  a  lost  wife." 

"Stop,  Miss  Catheron!"  she  lifted  her  hand,  and  her 
eyes  flashed.  "  You  make  a  mistake.  Sir  Victor  Cather- 
on's wife  I  am  not — never  will  be.  The  ceremony  we  went 
through,  ten  months  ago,  down  in  Cheshire,  means  nothing, 


EDITH. 


339 


since  a  bridegroom  who  deserts  his  bride  on  her  wedding- 
day,  resigns  all  right  to  the  name  and  authority  of  husband. 
Mind,  I  don't  regret  it  now  ;  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise 
if  I  could.  And  this  is  not  bravado,  Miss  Catheron  ;  I 
mean  it.  In  the  hour  I  married  your  cousin  he  was  no 
more  to  me  than  one  of  his  own  footmen — I  say  it  to  my  own 
shame  and  lasting  dishonor;  and  I  thank  Heaven  most  sin- 
cerely now,  that  whether  he  were  mad  or  sane,  that  he  de- 
serted me  as  he  did.  At  last  I  am  free — not  bound  for  life 
to  a  man  that  by  this  time  I  might  have  grown  to  loathe. 
For  I  think  my  indifference  then  would  have  grown  to  hate. 
Now  I  simply  scorn  him  in  a  degree  less  than  i  scorn  my- 
self. I  never  wish  to  hear  his  name — but  I  also  would  not 
go  an  inch  out  of  my  way  to  avoid  him.  He  is  simj^ly 
nothing  to  mc  -nothing.  If  I  were  dead  and  in  n)y  grave,  I 
could  not  be  one  whit  more  lost  to  him  than  I  am.  Why  he 
has  presumed  to  search  fur  me  is  beyond  my  comprehension. 
How  '  las  had  the  audacity  to  hunt  me  down,  and  send 
you  here,  surpasses  belief.  I  wonder  \ou  came.  Miss 
Catheron  !  As  yon  have  come,  let  mo  give  you  this  word 
of  advice  :  make  _>inir  first  visit  your  last.  Don't  come 
again  to  see  me — don'^  let  Sir  Vi(  )r  Catheron  dog  my  steps 
or  in  any  way  interfere  witli  me.  1  never  was  a  very  good 
or  patient  sort  of  person — I  have  not  'ocoiiie  more  so  of 
late.  I  am  only  a  girl,  alone  and  poor,  but,"  her  eyes 
flashed  tire — literally  fire — and  her  hands  clenched,  "  I  warn 
him — it  will  not  be  safe  !  " 

Inez  drew  back.  What  she  had  expected  she  hardly 
kne\*— certainly  not  this. 

"As  I  said  before,"  Edith  went  n,  "my  time  is  limited. 
Madame  does  not  allow  her  W'  ig-girls  to  receive  visitors 
in  working  hours.  Miss  Catheron,  I  have  the  honor  to 
wish  you  good-morning." 

"  Stay !  "  Inez  cried,  "  for  the  love  of  Heaven.  Oh, 
what  shall  I  say,  how  shall  I  soften  her  ?  Edith,  you  don't 
understand.  I  wish — I  wish  1  dared  tell  yoti  the  secret 
that  took  Victor  from  your  side  that  day  !  He  loves  you— 
no,  that  is  too  poor  a  word  to  express  what  he  feels ;  his 
life  is  paying  the  penalty  of  his  loss.  He  is  dying,  Edith, 
dying  of  heart  disease,  brought  on  by  what  he  has  suffered 
in  losing  you.     In  his  dying  hour  he  will  tell  you  all ;  and 


340 


EDITH. 


his  one  prayer  is  for  death,  that  he  may  tell  you,  that  you 
may  cease  to  wrong  and  hate  him  as  you  do.  O  Edith, 
hsten  to  me — pity  me— i)ity  him  who  is  dying  for  you! 
Don't  be  so  hard.  See,  I  kneel  to  you  ! — as  you  hope  for 
mercy  in  your  own  dying  hour,  Edith  Cathcron,  have  mercy 
on  him  ! " 

She  flung  herself  on  her  knees,  tears  pouring  over  her 
face,  and  held  uj)  her  clasped  hands. 

"For  pity's  sake,  Edith — for  your  own  sake.  Don't 
harden  your  heart ;  try  and  believe,  though  you  may  not 
understand.  I  tell  you  he  loves  you — that  he  is  a  dying 
man.  We  are  all  sinners  ;  as  you  hope  for  pity  and  mercy, 
have  pity  and  mercy  on  him  now."  With  her  hand  on  the 
door,  with  Inez  Catheron  clinging  to  her  dress,  she  paused, 
moved,  distressed,  softened  in  spite  of  herself 

"Get  up,  Miss  Catheron,"  she  said,  "you  must  not  kneel 
tome.  VVhat  is  it  you  want?  what  is  it  you  ask  me  to 
do?" 

"I  ask  you  to  give  up  this  life  of  toil — to  come  home 
with  n)e.  Lady  Helena  awaits  you.  Make  your  home  with 
her  and  with  me — take  the  name  and  wealth  that  are  yours, 
and  wait — try  to  wait  patiently  to  the  end.  For  yiclor — 
poor,  heart-broken  boy ! — you  will  not  have  long  to 
wait." 

Her  voice  broke — her  sobs  filled  the  room.  The  dis- 
tressed look  was  still  on  Edith's  face,  but  it  was  as  resolute 
as  ever. 

"  What  you  ask  is  impossible,"  she  said ;  "  utterly  and 
absolutely  impossible.  What  you  say  about  your  cousin 
may  be  true.  I  don't  understand — I  never  could  read  rid- 
dles— but  it  does  not  alter  my  determination  in  the  least. 
What  !  live  on  the  bounty  of  a  nsan  who  deserts  me  on  my 
wedding-day — who  makes  me  an  outcast — an  object  of 
scorn  and  disgrace  !  I  would  die  first !  I  would  face  star- 
\ation  and  death  in  this  great  city.  I  know  what  I  am  say- 
ing. I  would  sweep  a  crossing  like  that  beggar  in  rags 
yonder  ;  I  would  lie  down  and  die  in  a  ditch  sooner.  Let 
me  go,  Miss  Catheron,  I  beg  of  you  ;  you  only  distress  me 
unnecessarily.  If  you  pleaded  forever  it  could  not  avail. 
Give  my  love  to  Lady  Helena  ;  but  I  will  never  go  back — 
I  will  never  accept  a  farthing  from  Sir  Victor  Catheron, 


HO IV  THEY  MET. 


341 


Don't  come  here  more — don't  let  ///'/«  come."*  Again  her 
eyes  gleamed.  "  There  is  neither  sorrow  nor  pity  for  him 
in  my  heart.  It  is  Uke  a  stone  where  he  is  concerned,  and 
always  will  be — always,  though  he  lay  dying  before  me. 
Now,  farewell." 

Tiien  tlie  door  opened  and  closed,  and  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   III. 


HOW  THEy    MET. 

jtTSS  STUART  went  back  to  the  workroom,  and  to 
the  dozen  or  more  young  women  lliere  assembled. 
Ij  If  she  was  a  shade  paler  than  her  wont  they  were 
not  likely  to  notice  it — if  she  was  more  silent  even 
than  usual,  why  silence  was  always  Miss  Stuart's  forte. 
Only  the  young  person  to  whom  Aliss  Catheron  had  given 
tlie  sovereign  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  sa'd  point  blank  : 

"  I  say.  Miss  Stuart,  who  was  thati*  what  did  she  want  ?  " 
And  the  dark,  haughty  eyes  of  Miss  Stuart  had  lifted  from 
tlie  peach  satin  on  which  she  worked,  and  fixed  themselves 
icily  upon  her  interrogator  : 

"  It  was  a  lady  I  never  saw  before,"  she  answered  frig- 
idly. "  What  she  wanted  is  certainly  no  business  of  yours, 
Miss  Hatton." 

Miss  Hatton  flounced  off  with  a  muttered  reply;  but 
there  was  that  about  Edith  that  saved  her  from  open  insult 
• — a  dignity  and  distance  they  none  of  them  could  over- 
reach, ik'sides,  she  was  a  favorite  with  madame  and  the 
forewoman.  So  silently  industrious,  so  tastefully  neat,  so 
ivjrfeclly  trustworthy  in  her  work.  Her  companions  dis- 
liked and  distrusted  her  ;  she  held  herself  aloof  from  them 
all;  she  had  something  on  her  mind — there  was  an  air  of 
mystery  about  her;  they  doubted  her  being  an  English  girl 
at  all.  She  would  have  none  of  their  companionbhip  ;  if 
siie  had  a  secret  she  kept  it  well  ;  in  their  noisy,  busy  midst 
she  was  as  much  alone  as  though  she  were  on  Robinson 
Crusoe's  desert  island.     Outwardly  those  ten  months  had 


342 


JIOIV  THEY  MET. 


changed  her  little — her  brilliant,  dusk  beantr  was  scarcely 
dimmed — inwardly  it  had  changed  her  greatly,  and  hardly 
for  the  better. 

There  had  been  a  long  and  bitter  struggle  before  she 
found  herself  in  this  safe  haven.  For  nionlhs  she  had  drifted 
about  without  rudder,  or  compass,  or  psSoit,  on  the  dark, 
turbid  sea  of  London.  She  had  come  to  the  great  city 
friendless  and  alone,  with  very  little  money,  and  very  little 
knowledge  of  city  life.  She  had  found  lodgings  easily 
enough,  cheap  and  clean,  and  had  at  once  set  about  search- 
ing for  work.  On  the  way  up  she  had  decided  what  siie 
must  do — she  would  become  a  nurserj'  governess  or  com- 
panion to  some  elderly  lady,  or  she  would  teach  music. 
But  it  was  one  thing  to  resolve,  another  to  do.  There  were 
dozens  of  nursery  governesses  and  comjxinions  to  old 
ladies  wanting  in  the  columns  of  the  Tim^s,  but  they  were 
not  for  her.  "Where  are  your  references?"  was  the  terri- 
ble question  that  met  her  at  every  turn.  She  had  no  refer- 
ences, and  the  doors  of  the  genteel  second  and  third-rate 
houses  shut  quietly  in  her  face. 

Young  and  pretty,  without  references,,  money  or  friends, 
how  was  she  ever  to  succeed?  If  she  had  been  thirty  and 
pock-marked  she  might  have  triumphed  even  over  the  ref- 
erence business :  as  it  was,  her  case  seemed  hopeless. 
It  was  long,  however,  before  her  indoroitaMe  spirit  would 
yield.  Her  money  ran  low,  she  pawned  several  articles  of 
jewelry  and  dress  to  pay  for  food  and  lodging.  She  grew 
wan  and  hollow-eyed  in  this  terrible  time — ^aU  her  life  long 
she  could  never  recall  it  without  a  shudder. 

Five  months  passed  ;  despair,  black  and  awful,  filled  her 
soul  at  last.  The  choice  seemed  to  lie  between  going  out 
as  an  ordinary  servant  and  starving.  Even  as  a  house- 
maid she  would  want  this  not-to-be-got-OTer  reference.  In 
this  darkest-hour  before  the  dawn  she  saw  Madame  Mire- 
beau's  advertisement  for  sewing  girls,  and  in  sheer  dosjjair 
applied.  Tall,  handsome  girls  of  good  address,  were  just 
what  madame  required,  and  somehow — it  was  the  mercy 
of  liie  good  God  no  doubt — she  was  taken.  F(5r  weeks 
after  she  was  ke|)t  under  close  surveiJJartce,  she  was  so 
very  unlike  the  young  women  who  filled  such  situations — 
then  the  conviction  became  certainty  that  W\s&  Stuart  had 


HOW  THEY  MET. 


343 


no  sinister  designs  on  the  ruby  velvets,  the  snowy  satins, 
«iul  i)iicelcss  laces  of  her  aristocratic  customers — that  she 
really  wanted  work  and  was  thoroughly  capable  of  doing  it. 
Nature  had  made  Edith  an  artist  in  dressmaking ;  her  taste 
was  excellent ;  niadame  became  convinced  she  had  found 
a  treasure.  Only  one  thing  Miss  Stuart  steadfastly  refused 
to  do — that  was  to  wait  in  the  shoi).  "  I  have  reasons  of 
rny  own  for  keeping  perfectly  quiet,"  she  saiil,  looking 
niadamc  unilinchingly  in  tiie  eyes.  "  If  I  stay  in  the  shop 
I  may — though  it  is  not  likely — be  recognized  ;  and  then  1 
should  be  under  the  necessity  of  leaving  you  immediately." 

Madame  had  no  wish  to  lose  her  very  best  seamstress, 
so  Miss  Stuart  had  her  way.  The  sentimental  French- 
woman's own  idea  was  that  Aliss  Stuart  was  a  young  per- 
son of  rank  and  jjosition,  who  owing  to  some  ill-starred 
love  affair  had  been  obliged  to  run  away  and  hide  herself 
from  her  friends.  However  as  her  hopeless  passion  in  no 
way  interfered  with  her  dressmaking  ability,  madame  kej)t 
her  suspicions  to  herself  and  retained  her  in  the  work- 
room. 

And  so  after  weary  months  of  pain,  and  shame,  and  des- 
pair, Edith  had  come  safely  to  land  at  last.  For  the  past 
five  months  her  life  had  flowed  along  smoothly,  dully,  un- 
eventfully— going  to  her  work  in  the  morning,  returning  to 
her  lodgings  at  night — sometimes  indulging  '  i  a  short  walk 
in  the  summer  twilight  after  her  tea  ;  at  other  times  too 
wearied  out  in  body  and  mind  to  do  otlier  than  lie  down  on 
the  little  hard  bed,  and  sleep  the  spent  sleej)  of  exhaustion. 
That  was  iier  outer  life  ;  of  her  inner  life  what  shall  I  say  ? 
She  could  hardly  have  told  in  the  after-days  herself.  Some- 
how strength  is  given  us  to  bear  ail  things  and  live  on.  Of 
the  man  she  had  married  she  could  not,  dare  not  think— her 
heart  and  soul  filled  with  such  dark  and  deadly  hatred. 
Slie  abhorred  him, — it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that.  'J'lic 
packet  of  treasured  letters  written  in  New  York  so  long 
— oil,  so  long  ago  !  it  seemed — became"  the  one  spot  of 
sunshine  in  liar  sunless  life.  She  read  them  until  the 
words  lost  all  meaning — until  she  knew  every  one  by  iieart. 
She  looked  at  the  picture  until  the  half-smiling  eyes  and 
lips  seemed  to  mock  her  as  she  gazed.  The  little  turquoise 
broach  with  the  likeness,  she  wore  in  her  bosom  night  and 


344 


HOW  THEY  MET. 


day — the  first  thing  to  be  kissed  in  the  morning,  the  last  at 
night.  Wrong,  wrong,  wrong,  you  say ;  but  the  girl  was 
desperate  and  reckless — she  did  not  care.  Right  and 
wrong  were  all  confounded  in  her  warped  mind ;  only  tliis 
was  clear — she  loved  Charley  as  she  had  never  loved  him 
before  she  became  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  bride.  He 
scorned  and  despised  her ;  she  would  never  look  upon  his 
face  again — it  did  not  matter ;  she  would  go  to  iier  grave 
loving  him,  his  pictured  face  over  her  heart,  his  name  the 
last  upon  her  lips. 

Sometimes,  sitting  alone  in  the  dingy  London  twilight, 
there  rose  before  her  a  vision  of  what  might  have  been : 
Charley,  poor  as  he  was  now,  f  nd  she  Charley's  wife,  lie 
working  for  her,  somewhere  and  somehow,  as  she  knew  he 
gladly  would,  she  keeping  their  two  or  three  tiny  rooms  in 
order,  and  waiting,  with  her  best  dress  on,  as  evening  came, 
to  hear  his  step  at  the  door.  She  would  think  until  thought 
became  torture,  until  thought  became  actual  physical  puin. 
His  words,  spoken  to  her  that  last  night  she  had  ever  si)ent 
at  Sandyi)oint,  came  back  to  her  full  of  bitter  meaning 
now:  "  Whatever  the  future  brings,  don't  blame  me."  Tlie 
future  had  brought  loneliness,  and  poverty,  and  despair — 
all  her  own  fault — her  own  fault.  That  was  the  bitterest 
stina:  of  all — it  was  her  own  work  from  first  to  last.  She 
had  dreaded  poverty,  she  had  bartered  her  heart,  her  life, 
and  him  in  her  dread  of  it,  and  lo  I  such  poverty  as  she 
had  never  dreamed  of  had  come  upon  her.  If  she  had 
only  been  true  to  herself  and  her  own  heart,  what  a  happy 
creature  she  night  have  been  to-day. 

But  these  tunes  of  torture  were  mercifully  rare.  Her 
heart  seemed  numb — she  worked  too  hard  to  think  much — • 
at  night  she  was  too  dead  tired  to  spend  the  hours  in  fruit- 
less an£;uish  and  tears.  Her  life  went  on  in  a  sort  of  tread- 
mill  existence ;  and  until  the  coming  of  Inez  Catheron 
nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  it. 

H-r  heart  was  full  of  bitter  tumult  and  revolt  as  she  went 
back  to  her  work.  The  dastard  !  how  dared  he  !  He  was 
dying,  Inez  Catheron  had  said,  and  for  love  of  her.  Bah  ! 
she  could  have  laughed  in  her  bitter  scorn, — what  a  mock- 
ery it  was  !  If  it  were  true,  why  let  him  die  I  The  sooner 
the  better — dien  indeed  she  would  be  free.     Perhaps  Edith 


HO IV  THEY  MET. 


345 


had  lost  something — heart,  conscience — in  the  pain  and 
shame  of  the  past.  All  that  was  soft  and  forgiving  in  her 
nature  seemed  wliolly  to  have  died  out.  He  had  wronged 
her  beyond  all  reparation — the  only  reparation  he  i^ould 
make  was  to  die  and  leave  her  free. 

Madairie's  young  women  were  detained  half  an  hour 
later  than  usual  that  evening.  A  great  Iklgravian  ball 
came  off  next  night,  and  there  was  a  glut  of  work.  They 
got  away  at  last,  half  fagged  to  death,  only  to  find  a  dull 
drizzling  rain  falling,  and  the  murky  darkness  of  early  night 
settling  down  over  the  gas-lit  highways  of  London.  Miss 
Stuart  bade  her  companions  a  brief  good-night,  raised  her 
umbrella,  and  hurried  on  her  way.  She  did  not  observe 
the  waiting  figure,  muffled  from  the  rain  and  hidden  by  an 
umbrella,  that  had  been  watching  for  her,  and  who  instantly 
followed  her  steps.  She  hurried  on  rapidly  and  came  at 
last  to  a  part  of  the  street  where  it  was  necessary  she  should 
cross.  She  paused  an  instant  on  the  curbstone  irresolute. 
Cabs,  omnibuses  and  hansoms  were  tearing  by  in  numbers 
innumerable.  It  was  a  perilous  passage.  She  waited  two 
or  three  minutes,  but  there  was  no  lull  in  the  rush.  Then 
growing  quite  desperate  in  her  impatience  she  started  to 
cross.     The  ciossing  was  slippery  and  wet. 

"  I  say  !  look  out  there,  will  you  1 "  half  a  dozen  shrill 
cabbies  called,  before  and  behind. 

She  grew  bewildered — her  presence  of  mind  deserted 
her— she  dropped  her  umbrella  and  held  up  her  hands 
instinctively  to  keep  them  off.  As  she  did  so,  two  arms 
grasped  her,  she  felt  herself  absolutely  lifted  off  her  feet, 
and  carried  over.  l>ut  jusi.  as  the  curbstone  was  reached, 
something — a  carriage  jiole  it  appeared — struck  her  rescuer 
on  the  head,  and  felled  him  co  the  ground.  As  he  fell, 
Edith  sprang  lightly  out  of  his  arms,  and  stood  on  the 
pavement,  unhurt. 

The  man  had  fallen.  It  was  all  the  driver  of  the  hansom 
could  do  to  keep  his  horse  from  going  over  him.  There 
was  shouting  and  yelling  and  an  uproar  directly.  A  crowd 
surounded  the  prostrate  man.  X  2001  came  up  with  his 
baton  and  authority.  For  Edith,  she  stood  stunned  and 
bewildered  still.  She  saw  the  man  lifted  and  carried  into  a 
chemist's  near  by.  Instinctively  she  followed — it  was  in 
16* 


346 


irOlV  THEY  MET. 


saving  her  he  had  come  to  grief.  She  saw  him  placed  in  a 
chair,  the  mire  and  blood  washed  off  his  face,  and  then — 
was  s).c  stunned  and  stupefied  still — or  was  it,  was  it  the 
face  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron  ? 

It  was — awfully  bloodless,  awfully  corpse-like,  awfully 
like  the  face  of  a  dead  man  ;  but  the  face  of  the  man 
whose  bride  she  had  been  ten  months  ago — the  face  of  Sir 
Victor  Catheron. 

She  leaned  heavily  against  the  counter,  feeling  giddy  and 
sick — the  place  swimming  around  her.  Was  he  dead  ? 
Had  he  met  his  death  trying  to  save  her  ?  "  Blessed  if  I 
don't  think  he's  dead  and  done  for,"  said  the  chemist.  "  It 
aint,  such  a  bad  cut  neither.  I  say  !  does  anybody  know 
who  he  is  ?  " 

Nobody  knew.  Then  the  keen  eyes  of  X  2001  fell  upon 
Edith,  pale  and  wild-looking,  with  evident  terror  and  recog- 
nition in  her  face. 

"I  say,  miss,  you  know,  don't  you?"  Bobby  suggested 
politely.  "  It  was  reskying  you  ho  got  it,  you  know.  You 
know  this  'ere  gent,  don't  you,  miss  !     Who  is  he?" 

"  He  is  Sir  Victor  Catheron." 

"  Oh,"  said  Bobby.  "  Sir  Wictor  Catheron,  is  he  ?  I  thought 
he  was  a  heavy  swell."  And  then  his  eyes  took  in  Edith's 
very  handsome  face,  and  very  plain  dress,  and  evident  sta- 
tion, and  he  formed  his  own  surnuse.  "  Perhaps  now,  miss, 
you  knows  too,  where  he  ought  to  be  took  ?  " 

"No,"  she  answered  mechanically;  "  I  don't  know.  If 
you  search  his  pockets,  you  will  most  hkely  find  his  address. 
You — you,  don't  really  think  he  is  dead?" 

She  came  a  step  nearer  as  she  asked  the  question — her 
very  lips  colorless.  An  hour  ago  it  seemed  to  her  she  had 
almost  wished  for  his  death — now  it  seemed  too  horrible. 
And  to  meet  it  saving  her  too, — after  all  her  thoughts  of  him. 
She  felt  as  though  she  could  never  bear  that. 

"  Well,  no,  miss,  I  don't  think  he  is  dead,"  the  chemist 
answered,  "  though  I  must  say  he  looks  uncommon  like  it. 
There's  something  more  the  matter  with  him  than  this  rap 
on  the  'ead.  Here's  his  card-case — now  let's  see  :  *  Sir 
Victor  Catheron,  Bart.  Eenton's  'Otel.'  Fenton's  'Otel. 
Bobby,  I  say,  let's  border  a  cab  and  'ave  him  driven  there." 

"  Somebody  ought  to  go  with   him,"  said  X  2001.     "  I 


I/O IV  THEY  PARTED. 


m 


can't  go—yati  can't  go.  I  don't  suppose  now,  miss,"  look- 
ing VLM-y  doubtfully  at  Edith,  '^ you  could  go  nuther?" 

"Is  it  uccessary?"  Edith  asked,  with  very  visible  re- 
luctance. 

"  Well,  you  sec,  miss,  he  looks  uncommonly  like  a  stiff 
'un  this  minute,  and  if  he  was  to  die  by  the  way  or  hany- 
think,  and  him  halone — " 

"I  will  go,"  interposed  Edith,  turning  away  with  a  sick 
shudder.     "  Call  the  cab  at  once." 

A  four-wheeler  was  summoned — the  insensible  young 
baronet  was  carried  out  and  laid,  as  comfortably  as  might 
be,  on  the  back  scat.  Edith  followed,  unutterably  against 
her  will,  but  how  was  she  to  help  it  ?  He  was  her  worst 
enemy,  but  even  to  one's  worst  enemy  common  humanity 
at  times  must  be  shown.  It  would  be  brutal  to  let  him  go 
alone. 

"  Don't  you  be  afraid,  miss,"  the  chemist  said  cheerfully ; 
"  he  aiji't  dead  yet.  He's  only  stunned  like,  and  will  come 
round  all  right  directly." 

"Fenton's,  Bill,"  and  the  cab  rattled  off. 


CHArTER  IV. 


HOW  THEY   parted; 


HAT  ride — all  her  life  it  came  back  to  her  like 
a  bad  nightmare.  She  kept  her  eyes  turned  awa}' 
as  much  as  she  could  from  that  rigid  form  and 
ghastly  face  opjwsite,  but  in  spite  of  herself  they 
would  wander  back.  What  Miss  Catheron  had  said  was 
true  then — he  wa'  dying — death  was  i)ictured  in  his  face. 
What  if,  after  ah,  Uierc  was  some  secret  strong  enough  to 
make  his  conduct  in  leaving  her  right  ?  She  had  thought  it 
over  and  wondered  and  wondered,  until  her  brain  was 
dazed,  but  coulu  never  hit  on  any  solution.  She  could  not 
now — it  was  not  right.  Whatever  the  secret  was,  he  had 
known  it  before  he  married  her — why  had  he  not  left  her 
then — why  in  leaving    her  after    had   he   not   explained  ? 


348 


HOW  THEY  PARTED, 


There  was  no  excuse  for  him,  none,  and  in  spite  of  the  white, 
worn  face  that  pleaded  for  him,  her  heart  hardened  once 
more — hardened  until  she  felt  neill.i  r  pity  nor  jKiin. 

They  reached  the  hotel.  Jamison,  the  valet,  came  down, 
and  recoiled  at  sight  of  his  master's  long  lost  wife. 

"  My  lady!"  he  faltered,  staring  as  though  he  had  seen  a 
ghost. 

"Your  master  has  met  with  an  accident,  Jamison,"  Edith 
said  calniiy,  ignoring  the  title.  Mow  oddly  it  sounded  to 
her.  "  Vou  had  better  have  him  conveyed  to  his  room  and 
send  for  a  surgeon.     And,  if  Lady  Helena  is  in  town — " 

"  Lady  Helena  is  in  town,  my  luly.  Will — "  Jamison 
hesitated,  "will  you  not  come  in,  mv  lady,  and  wait  until 
her  ladyship  comes  ?  " 

Again  for  a  moment  Edith  hesitated  and  thought.  Ft 
would  be  necessary  for  some  one  to  explain — she  could  not 
go  away  either  without  knowing  whether  the  injury  he  had 
received  were  fatal  or  not,  since  that  injury  was  received  in 
her  service.     She  set  her  lips  and  alighted. 

"  I  will  remain  until  Lady  Helena  arrives.  Pray  lose  no 
time  in  sending  for  her." 

"I  will  send  immediately,  my  lady,"  answered  Jamison 
respectful  1)'.  "  Tliompson,"  to  a  waiter,  "  show  this  lady  to 
a  parlor  at  once." 

And  then  Edith  found  herself  following  a  gentlemanly  sort 
of  man  in  black,  down  a  long  hall,  up  a  great  staircase,  along 
a  carpeted  corridor,  and  into  an  elegant  |)rivate  parlor. 
The  man  lit  the  gas  and  went,  and  then  she  was  alone. 

She  sat  down  to  think.  What  a  strange  adventure  it  had 
been.  She  .lad  wished  for  her  freedom — it  seemed  as  though 
it  were  near  at  hand.  She  shuddered  and  shrank  from  her- 
self 

"  What  a  wretch  I  am,"  she  thought ;  "  what  a  vile  creature 
I  nnist  be.  If  he  dies,  I  shall  feel  as  though  I  murdered 
him." 

How  long  the  hours  and  half  hours,  told  off  on  the  clock, 
seemed — eight,  nine,  ten, — would  Lady  Helena  never  come  ? 
It  was  a  long  way  to  St.  John's  Wood,  but  she  might  surely 
be  here  by  this  time.  It  was  half  past  ten,  and  tired  out 
thinking,  tired  out  with  her  day's  work,  she  had  fallen. into 
a  sort  of  uneasy  sleep  and  fitful  dream  in  her  chair  when 


//Oiy   TIIRY  PARTED. 


349 


she  suddenly  became  half  conscious  of  souie  one  near  her. 
She  had  been  dreaniin'^  of  San(l\i)oinf,  of  quarrelling  with 
jier  cousin.  "  Don't  Charley  !  "  slie  said  petulantly,  aloud, 
and  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  awoke  her  fully.  She 
started  up,  bewildered  for  a  second,  and  found  herself  face 
to  face  with  Lady  Helena.  With  Lady  Helena,  looking  very 
l)ale  and  sorrowful,  with  tear-wet  eyes  and  cheeks. 

She  had  been  watching  Edith  for  the  i.)ast  five  minutes 
silently  and  sadly.  The  girl's  dream  was  pleasant,  a  half 
snn'le  parted  iier  lips.  Then  slie  had  moved  restlessly. 
*'  Don't  Charley  ?"  she  said  distinctly  and  awoke. 

It  was  of  him  then  she  was  dreaming — thoughts  of  him 
had  brought  to  her  lips  that  happy  smile.  The  heart  of  the 
elder  woman  contracted  with  a  sharp  sense  of  pain. 

"  Lady  Helena  !  " 

"Edith!" 

She  took  the  girl's  hand  in  both  her  own  and  looked 
kindly  at  her.  She  had  liked  her  very  nnich  in  the  days 
gone  by,  though  she  had  never  wished  her  nephew  to  marry 
her.  And  she  could  hardly  blame  her  very  greatly  undei  the 
circumstances,  if  her  dreams  were  of  the  man  she  loved,  not 
of  the  bridegroom  who  had  left  lier. 

"I — I  think  I  fell  aslee[),"  Edith  said  confusedly  ;  "  I  was 
very  tired,  and  it  all  seemed  so  quiet  and  tedious  here. 
How  x'^heV 

"  Better  and  asleep — tliey  gave  him  an  opiate.  He  knows 
nothing  of  your  being  here.  It  was  very  good  of  you  to 
come,  my  child." 

"  It  was  nothing  more  than  a  duty  of  common  humanity. 
It  was  imi)ossible  to  avoid  coming,"  Edith  answered,  and 
then  briefly  and  rather  coldly  she  narrated  liow  the  accident 
had  taken  place. 

"  My  poor  boy !  "  was  all  Lady  Helena  said,  but  there 
was  a  heart  sob  in  every  word  ;  "  he  would  die  gladly  to 
save  you  a  moment's  pain,  atid  yet  it  has  been  his  bitter  lot 
to  inllict  the  worst  pain  of  your  life.  My  poor  child,  you 
can't  understand,  and  we  can't  explain — it  must  seem  very 
hard  and  incomprehensible  to  you,  but  one  day  you  will 
know  all,  and  you  will  do  him  justice  at  last.  Ah,  Edith  ! 
if  you  had  not  refused  Inez — if  only  you  were  not  so  pioud, 
if  you  would  take  what  is  your  right  and  your  due,  he  vd^ht 


3  so 


HOW  TIIEY  PARTED. 


bear  tliis  separation  until  Heaven's  good  time.  As  it  is,  il 
is  killing  hiin." 

"He  looks  very  ill,"  Edith  said;  "what  is  the  matter 
with  him  ?  " 

"  Heart  disease — brought  on  by  mental  suffering.  No 
words  can  tell  what  he  has  undertrone  since  his  most  miser- 
able  wetlding-day.  It  is  known  only  to  Heaven  and  himself, 
but  it  has  taken  his  life.  As  surely  as  ever  human  heart 
broke,  his  broke  on  the  day  he  left  you,  And  you,  my  poor 
child — yo:i  have  suffered  too." 

"  Of  I.  we  will  not  speak,"  the  girl  answered  i)r6udly  ; 
"what  is  v.uiie,  is  done,  For  me,  1  hope  the  worst  is  over 
— I  am  safe  and  well,  and  in  good  health  as  you  see.  1  am 
glad  Sir  Victor  Catheron  has  not  met  his  death  in  my' service. 
J  have  only  one  wish  regarding  him,  and  that  is  tlaat  he  will 
keep  away  from  me.  And  now,  Lady  Helena,  before  it 
grows  any  later,  I  will  go  home." 

"  Go  home  !  At  this  hour  ?  Most  certainly  you  will  not. 
You  will  remain  here  all  night.  Oh,  Edith,  you  must  indeed. 
A  room  has  been  prepared  for  you,  adjoining  mine.  Inez 
and  Jamison  will  remain  with  Victor  until  morning,  and — 
you  ought  to  see  him  bef  )re  you  go." 

She  shrank  in  a  sort  of  horror. 

"  No,  no,  no  I  that  I  cannot !  As  it  is  so  late  I  will  re- 
main, but  see  him — no,  no  !  Not  even  for  your  sake.  Lady 
Helena,  ca..  I  do  diat." 

"  We  will  wait  until  to-morrow  comes,"  was  Lady  Helena's 
response ;  "  now  you  shall  go  to  your  room  at  once." 

She  rang  the  bell,  a  chambermaid  came.  Lady  Helena 
kissed  the  girl's  pale  cheek  affectionately,  and  lulilh  was  led 
away  to  the  room  she  was  to  occupy  for  that  night. 

it  was  certainly  a  contrast  in  its  size  and  luxurious  ap- 
pointments to  that  she  had  used  for  the  last  ten  mondis. 
She  smiled  a  little  as  she  glanced  around.  And  she  was  to 
spend  the  night  under  the  same  roof  wid)  Sir  Victor  Cathe- 
ron. If  anyone  had  predicti.'d  it  this  morning,  how  scornfully 
she  would  have  refused  to  believe. 

"Who  can  tell  what  a  day  may  bring  forth  !"  was  F,ditli's 
last  thought  as  she  laid  lu.r  head  on  her  pillow.  "  1  am  glad 
— very  glad,  that  the  accident  will  not  prove  flital.  I  don't 
want  him  or  anyone  else  to  come  to  lus  death  througii  me." 


JIOIV  THEY  PARTED. 


3S« 


She  slept  well  and  soundly,  and  awoke  late.  She  sprang 
out  of  l)e(l  almost  instantly  and  dressed.  She  could  but  illy 
afford  to  lose  a  day.  Before  h'T  toilet  was  quite  completed 
there  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Shi,  opened  it  and  saw  Miss 
Catheron. 

"  I  fancied  ycu  would  be  up  eaily,  and  ordered  breakfast 
accordingly.  Aunt  Helena  awaits  you  down  stairs.  How 
did  you  sleep?" 

"  Very  well.  And  you — you  were  up  all  night  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  mind  it  at  all,  thougli — I  am  quite  used  to 
night  watching.  Anrl  I  have  the  reward  of  knowing  Victor 
is  much  better — entirely  out  of  danger  indeed.  Edith,"  she 
laid  her  hands  on  the  girl's  shoulders  and  looked  down  into 
her  eyes,  "  he  knows  yoii  are  here.  Will  you  be  merciful  to 
a  dying  man  and  see  hi'v.  ?" 

Siie  changed  color  and  shrank  a  little,  but  she  answered 
proudly  and  ci,ldly  : 

"  No  good  can  come  of  it.  It  will  be  much  better  not, 
but  for  my  own  part  I  care  little.  If  he  wishes  to  urge  what 
you  came  to  urge,  I  warn  ytni,  I  will  not  listen  to  a  word ;  I 
will  leave  at  once." 

"  He  will  not  urge  it.  He  knows  how  obdurate  yon  are, 
how  fruitless  it  would  be.  Ah,  Edith  !  you  are  a  terribly 
haughty,  self-willed  girl.  He  will  not  detain  you  a  moment 
— he  wishes  to  make  but  one  parting  retpiest." 

"  I  can  grant  nothing — nothing,"  Edith  said  with  agitation. 

"You  will  grant  this,  I  think,"  the  other  answered  sadly. 
"Come,  dear  child,  let  us  go  down  ;  Eady  Helena  waits." 

They  descended  to  breakfast ;  Edith  ate  little.  In  spite 
of  herself,  in  spite  of  her  pride  and  self  command,  it  shcjk 
her  a  little — the  thought  of  speaking  to  him. 

\\\\.  how  was  she  to  refuse?  She  rose  at  last,  very  pale, 
very  stern  and  resolute  looking — the  sooner  it  was  over  and 
she  was  gont%  the  better. 

"Now,''  she  said,  '"if  jou  insist — " 

"  I  do  insist,"  answered  Inez,  steadily.     "Come." 

She  led  her  to  a  door  down  the  corridor  and  rapped. 
How  horribly  thick  and  fast  Editli's  heart  beat  ;  she  hated 
herself  for  it.  The  door  ojiened,  and  the  grave,  professional 
face  of  Mr.  Jamison  looked  out. 


352 


HOW  THEY  PARTED. 


"Tell  Sir  Victor,  Lady  Catheron  is  here,  and  will  see 
him." 

The  man  bowed  and  departed.  Another  instant  and  he 
was  again  before  them  : 

"Sir  Victor  begs  my  lady  to  enter  at  once." 

Then  Inez  Catheron  took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her. 
It  was  her  farewell.     She  pointed  forward  and  hurried  away. 

Edith  went  on.  A  door  and  curtain  separated  her  from 
the  inner  room.  She  opened  one,  lifted  the  other,  and  hus- 
band and  wife  were  face  to  face. 

He  lay  ui)on  a  low  sofa — the  room  was  partially  darkened, 
but  even  in  that  semi-darkness  she  could  see  that  he  looked 
quite  as  ghastly  and  bloodless  this  morning  as  he  had  last 
night. 

She  paused  about  half  way  down  the  room  and  spoke : 
"You  wished  to  see  me,  Sir  Victor  Catheron  ?  " 

Cold  and  calm  the  formal  words  fell. 

"  Edith  !  "  • 

His  answer  was  a  cry — a  cry  wrung  from  a  soul  full  of 
love  and  anguish  untolil.  It  struck  home,  even  to  /ur 
heart,  steeled  against  him  and  all  feeling  of  pity. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  ill.  I  am  glad  your  accident 
is  no  worse."  Again  she  spoke,  stiff,  formal,  commonplace 
words,  that  souniled  horribly  out  of  place,  even  to  herself. 

"  Edith,"  he  repeated,  and  again  no  words  can  tell  the 
pathos,  the  desjjair  of  tliat  cry,  "forgive  me — have  pity  on 
me.  You  hate  me,  and  I  deserve  your  hate,  but  oh  !  if  you 
knew,  even  you  would  have  mercy  and  relent !  " 

He  touched  her  in  spite  of  herself.  Even  a  heart  of 
stone  might  have  softened  at  the  sound  of  that  despairing, 
heart-wrung  voice — at  sight  of  that  death-like,  tortured  face. 
And  Edith's,  whatever  she  might  say  or  think,  was  not  a 
heart  of  stone. 

"  I  do  pity  you,"  she  said  very  gently  ;  "  I  never  thought 
to — but  from  my  soul  1  do.  Jiut,  forgive  you  !  No,  Sir 
Victor  Catheron  ;  I  am  only  mortal.  1  iiave  been  wronged 
and  humiliated  as  no  girl  was  ever  wronged  and  humiliated 
before.     1  can't  do  that." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands — she  could  bear  the 
dry  sobbing  sound  of  his  wordless  misery. 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  not  come  here,"  she 


THE   TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET. 


353 


said  still  gently.  "You  are  ill,  and  this  excitement  will 
make  you  worse.  But  they  insisted  upon  it — they  said  you 
had  a  request  to  niaice.  1  think  you  had  better  not  make  it 
■ — I  can  grant  nothing — notiiing." 

"  You  will  grant  ilii?,"  he  answered,  lifting  his  face  and 
using  the  words  Inez  liad  used  ;  "  it  is  only  that  when  1  am 
dying,  and  send  for  you  on  my  death-bed,  you  will  come  to 
me.  Jkfore  1  die  1  must  tell  you  all — the  terrible  secret ;  I 
dare  not  tell  you  in  life ;  and  l.ien,  oh  surely,  surely  you  will 
pity  and  forgive  !  Edith,  my  love,  my  darling,  leave  me  this 
one  hope,  give  me  this  one  ])romise  before  you  go?" 

"  1  promise  to  come,"  was  her  answer ;  "  1  promise  to 
listen — 1  can  promise  no  more.  A  week  ago  1  thought  I 
would  have  died  sooner  than  pledge  myself  to  that  much — • 
sooner  than  look  in  your  face,  or  si)eak  to  you  one  word. 
And  now.  Sir  Victor  Cadieron,  farewell." 

She  turned  to  go  without  wailing  for  his  reply.  As  she 
opened  the  door,  she  heard  a  wailing  cry  that  struck  chill 
with  pity  and  terror  to  her  inmost  heart. 

"  Oh,  my  love!  my  bride!  my  wife!" — then  the  door 
closed  behind  her — she  heard  and  saw  no  more. 

So  they  had  met  and  parted,  and  only  death  could  bring 
them  together  again. 

She  passed  out  into  the  sunshine  and  s])lendor  of  the 
summer  niorning,  dazed  and  cold,  her  whole  soul  full  of  un- 
told con)passion  for  the  man  she  had  left. 


CHAPTER   V. 


THE   TELLING    OF   THE    SECRET, 


DITH  went  back  to  the  work-room  in  Oxford 
Street,  to  the  old  treadmill  life  of  ceaseless  sewing, 
and  once  more  a  lull  came  into  her  disturbed  exis- 
tence— the  lull  preceding  the  last-ending  of  this 
strani;e  mystery  that  had  wrecked  two  lives.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  she  sat  down  among  nuuknne's  trooj)  of  noisy,  chat- 
tering gills,  as  though  last  night  and  its  events  were  a  long 
way  off  and  a  figment  of  some  strange  dream.     That  she 


354 


THE    TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


had  stood  face  to  face  with  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  spent  a 
night  under  the  same  roof,  actually  spoken  to  liim,  actually 
felt  sorry  for  him,  was  too  unreal  to  be  true.  They  had 
said  rightly  when  they  told  her  death  was  pictured  on  his  face. 
Wiiatever  this  secret  of  his  might  be,  it  was  a  secret  that  had 
cost  him  his  life.  A  hundred  times  a  day  that  palliil,  tor- 
tured face,  rose  before  her,  that  last  agonized  cry  of  a  strong 
heart  in  strong  agony  rang  in  her  ears.  All  her  hatred,  all 
her  revengeful  thoughts  of  him  were  gone — she  understood 
no  better  than  befoie,  but  she  pitied  him  from  the  depths  of 
her  heart. 

They  disturbed  her  no  more,  neither  by  letters  nor  visits. 
Only  as  the  weeks  went  by  she  noticed  this — that  as  surely 
as  evening  came,  a  shadowy  figure  hovering  alcjof,  followed 
her  home.  She  knew  who  it  was — at  first  she  felt  inclined 
to  resent  it,  but  as  he  never  came  near,  never  s|)oke,  only 
followed  her  from  that  safe  distance,  she  grew  reconciled 
and  accustomed  to  it  at  last.  She  understood  his  motive — 
to  shield  her — to  protect  her  from  danger  and  insult,  think- 
ing himself  unobserved. 

Once  or  twice  she  caught  a  fleeting  gHmpse  of  his  face  on 
these  occasions. 

What  a  corpse-like  face  it  was — how  utterly  weak  and 
worn-out  he  seemed--more  fitted  for  a  sick-btd  than  the 
role  of  protector.  "  Poor  fellow,"  Edith  thougiit  often,  her 
heart  growing  very  gentle  with  pity  and  wonder,  "  how  he 
loves  me,  how  faithfiil  he  is  after  ail.  Oh,  I  wonder — I 
wonder,  ivhat  this  secret  is  that  took  him  from  me  a  year 
ago.  Will  his  mountain  turn  into  a  mole-hill  v.Iien  I  hear 
it,  if  I  ever  do,  or  will  it  justify  him  ?  Is  he  sane  or  mad  ? 
And  yet  Lady  Helena,  who  is  in  her  right  mind,  surely,  holds 
him  justified  in  what  he  has  done." 

July — August  passed — the  middle  of  Sei)tember  came. 
All  this  time,  whatever  the  weather,  she  never  once  missed 
her  "shadow"  fron)  his  i>ost.  As  we  grow  accustomed  to 
all  things,  she  grew  accustomed  to  this  watchful  care,  givw 
to  look  for  him  when  the  day's  work  was  done.  But  in  the 
middle  of  September  she  missed  him.  Evening  aft<'r  even- 
ing came,  and  she  returned  home  unfuUowcd  and  alone. 
Something  had  happened. 

Yes,    something   had   happened.     He   had  never  really 


THE   TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET, 


355 


held  up  his  head  after  that  second  parting  with  Edith.  For 
days  he  had  lain  prostrate,  so  near  to  death  that  they 
thought  death  surely  must  come.  But  by  the  end  of  a 
week  he  was  better — as  much  better  at  least  as  he  ever 
would  be  in  this  world. 

"Victor,"  his  aunt  would  cry  out,  "  I  wish — I  wish  you 
would  consult  a  physician  about  this  affection  of  the  heart. 
I  am  frightened  for  you — it  is  not  like  anything  else.  There 
is  this  famous  German — do  go  to  see  him  to  please  me." 

"To  please  you,  my  dear  aunt — my  good,  patient  nurse — 
I  would  do  much,"  her  nephew  was  wont  to  answer  with  a 
smile.  "  Believe  me  your  fears  are  groundless,  however. 
Death  takes  the  hopeful  and  happy,  and  passes  by  such 
wretches  as  I  am.  It  all  comes  of  weakness  of  body  and 
depression  of  mind  ;  there's  nothing  serious  the  matter.  If 
I  get  worse,  vou  may  depend  upon  it,  I'll  go  and  consult 
Herr  Von  Werter." 

Then  it  was  that  he  began  his  nightly  duty — the  one  joy 
left  in  his  joyless  life.  Lady  Helena  and  Inez  returned  to 
St.  John's  Wood.  And  Sir  Victor,  from  his  lodgings  in 
Fenton's  Hotel,  followed  his  wife  home  every  evening.  It 
was  his  first  thought  when  he  arose  in  the  morning,  the  one 
hope  that  upheld  him  all  the  long,  weary,  aimless  day — the 
one  wild  delight  that  was  like  a  spasm,  half  pain,  half  joy — 
when  the  dusk  fell  to  see  her  slender  figure  come  forth,  to 
follow  his  darling,  himself  unseen,  as  he  fancied,  to  JK-r 
humble  home.  To  watch  near  it,  to  look  up  at  her  light L-d 
windows  with  eyes  full  of  such  love  and  longing  as  no 
words  can  ever  picture,  and  then,  shivering  in  the  rising 
night  wind,  to  hail  a  hansom  and  go  home — to  live  only  in 
the  thought  of  another  meeting  on  the  morrow. 

Whatever  the  weather,  it  has  been  said,  he  went.  On 
many  occasions  he  returned  drenched  through,  with  chatter- 
ing teeth  and  livid  lips.  Then  would  follow  long,  fever- 
tossed,  sleepless  nights,  and  a  morning  of  utter  prostration, 
mental  and  i)hysical. 

l>ut  come  what  might,  while  he  was  able  to  stand,  he 
must  return  to  his  post — to  his  wife. 

But  Nature,  defied  long,  claimed  her  penalty  at  last. 
There  came  a  day  when  Sir  Victor  could  rise  from  his  bed 
no  more,  when  the  heart  spasms,  in  their  anguish,  grew 


356 


THE   TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET. 


even  more  than  his  resolute  will  couid  bear.  A  day  when 
in  dire  alarm  Lady  Helena  and  Ine^  were  once  more  sum- 
moned by  faithful  Jamison,  and  w]]i;:n  at  last — at  last  the 
infallible  German  doctor  was  sent  for. 

The  interview  between  physiciaji  and  patient  was  long 
and  strictly  i)rivate.  When  Herr  Von  W'erter  went  away 
at  last  his  phlegmatic  Teuton  face  was  i^t  with  an  imwontod 
expression  of  pity  and  pain.  After  an  interval  of  ahnost 
unendui-able  suspense,  Lady  Helena  was  sent  for  by  her 
nephew,  to  be  told  the  result.  He  lay  upon  a  low  sofa, 
wheeled  near  the  window.  The  last  liglh'  of  the  Septeml)er 
day  streamed  in  and  fell  full  upon  hss  face — perhaps  that 
was  what  glorified  it  and  gave  it  such  a  radiant  look.  A 
faint  smile  lingered  on  his  lij)s,  liis  eyes  had  a  far-off,  dreamy 
look,  and  were  fixed  on  the  rosy  evcinini^  sky.  A  strange, 
unearthly,  exalted  look  altogether,  ihat  made  his  aunt's 
heart  sink  like  stone. 

"Well?"  She  said  it  in  a  tense  sort  of  whisper,  longing 
for,  yet  dreading,  the  reply.  He  lurreoj  to  her,  tint  smile 
still  on  his  lips,  still  in  his  eyes.  He  had  not  looked  so 
well  for  months.     He  took  her  hand. 

"Aunt,"  he  said,  "you  have  heard  of  doomed  men  sen- 
tenced to  death  receiving  their  repneve  at  the  last  hour  ? 
I  think  1  know  to-day  how  those  men  must  feel.  My  r^'- 
prieve  has  come." 

"  Victor  !  "  It  was  a  gasp.  "  Dr.  Von  Werter  says  you  will 
recover !  " 

His  eyes  turned  from  her  to  that  radiant  brightness  in  the 
September  sky. 

"  It  is  aneurism  of  the  heart-  Dr.  Von  Werter  says  I 
Won't  live  three  weeks." 

*  «  He  *  *  *  ik 

They  were  down  in  Cheshire.  Ther  had  taken  him  home 
while  there  was  yet  time,  by  slow  ajad  ea>y  stages.  They 
took  him  to  Catheron  Royals — it  wjj  his  wish,  and  they 
lived  but  to  gratify  his  wishes  now. 

The  grand  old  house  was  as  it  had  been  left  a  year  ago — 
fitted  up  resplendently  for  a  bride — ^a  bride  who  had  never 
come.  There  was  one  particular  room  to  which  he  desired 
to  be  taken,  a  spacious  and  sumptuoas  chamber,  all  purple 


THE  TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET. 


357 


and  gilding,  and  there  they  laid  him  upon  the  bed,  from 
which  he  would  never  rise. 

It  was  the  close  of  September  now,  the  days  golden  and 
mellow,  beautiful  with  the  rich  beauty  of  early  autumn,  be- 
fore decay  has  coine.  He  had  grown  rapidly  worse  since 
that  memorable  interview  with  the  German  doctor,  and 
paralysis,  that  "death  in  life"  was  preceding  the  fatal  foot- 
steps of  aneurism  of  the  heart.  His  lower  limbs  were 
paralyzed.  The  end  was  very  near  now.  On  the  last  day 
of  September  Herr  Von  Werter  paid  his  last  visit. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  madame,"  he  said  to  Lady  Helena ;  "  I 
can  do  nothing — nothing  whatever.  He  won't  last  the 
week  out." 

The  young  baronet  turned  his  serene  eyes,  serene  at  last 
with  the  awful  serenity  that  jirecedes  the  end.  He  had 
heard  the  fiat  not  intended  for  his  ears. 

"You  are  sire  of  this,  doctor?  Sure,  mind  I  I  won't 
last  the  week  out  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible.  Sir  Victor.  I  always  tell  my  patients 
the  truth.  Your  disease  is  beyond  the  reach  of  all  earthly 
skill.  The  end  may  come  at  any  moment — in  no  case  can 
you  survive  the  week." 

His  serene  face  did  not  change.  He  turned  to  his  aunt 
with  a  smile  that  was  often  on  his  lips  now  : 

"At  last,"  he  said  softly  ;  "  at  last  my  darling  may  come 
to  me — at  last  I  may  tell  her  all.  Thank  (iod  for  this  hour 
of  release.     Aunt  Helena,  send  for  Editl\  at  once," 

By  the  night  train,  a  few  hours  later,  Inez  Catheron  went 
up  to  London.  As  Madame  Mirebeau's  young  women 
assembled  next  morning,  she  was  there  before  them,  wait- 
ing to  see  Miss  Stuart. 

Edith  came — a  foreknowledge  of  the  truth  in  her  mind. 
The  interview  was  brief  She  left  at  once  in  company  with 
Miss  Catheron,  and  Madame  Mirebeau's  establishment  was 
to  know  her  no  more. 

As  the  short,  autumnal  day  closed  in,  they  were  in 
Cheshire. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  second  of  October — the  anni- 
versary of  the  bridal  eve.  And  thus  at  last  the  bride  was 
coming  home.  She  looked  out  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing 
of  the  familiar  landscape  as  it  flitted  by — the  places  she  had 


358 


THE   TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


never  thought  to  see  more.  She  was  going  to  Catheron 
Royals,  to  the  man  she  had  married  a  year  ago.  A  year 
ago!  what  a  strange,  terrible  year  it  had  been  —  Hke  a  bad 
dream.  She  shuddered  as  she  recalled  it.  All  was  to  be 
told  at  last,  and  death  was  to  set  all  things  even.  The 
bride  was  returning  to  the  bridegroom  like  this. 

All  the  way  from  the  station  to  the  great  house  she  never 
spoke  a  word.  Her  heart  beat  with  a  dull,  heavy  pain — 
pity  for  him — dread  of  what  she  was  to  hear.  It  was  ijuite 
dark  when  they  rolled  through  the  lofty  gates,  uj)  the  broad, 
tree-shaded  drive,  to  the  grand  portico  entrance  of  the 
house. 

"  He  is  very  low  this  evening,  miss,"  Jamison  whispered 
as  he  admitted  them  ;  "  feverish  and  longing  for  her  lady- 
ship's coming.  He  begs  that  as  soon  as  my  lady  is  rested 
and  has  had  some  refreshment  she  will  come  to  him  af  once." 

Lady  Helena  met  them  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and 
took  the  pale,  tired  girl  in  her  aims  for  a  moment.  Then 
Edith  was  in  a  firelit,  waxlit  room,  lying  back  for  a  minute's 
rest  in  the  downy  depths  of  a  great  chair.  Then  coffee  and 
a  dainty  repast  was  brought  her.  She  bathed  her  face  and 
hands,  and  tried  to  eat  and  drink.  But  the  food  seemed  to 
choke  her.  She  drank  the  strong,  black  coffee  eagerly, 
and  was  ready  to  go. 

Lady  Helena  led  her  to  the  room  where  he  lay — that 
purple  and  gold  chamber,  with  all  its  dainty  and  luxurious 
appointments.  She  shrank  a  little  as  she  entered — she  re- 
membered it  was  to  have  been  their  room  when  they  re- 
turned from  their  bridal  tour.  Lady  Helena  just  opened 
the  door  to  admit  her,  closed  it  again,  and  was  gone. 

She  was  alone  with  the  dying  man.  By  the  dim  light  of 
two  wax  tapers  she  beheld  him  propped  up  with  pillows, 
his  white,  eager  face  turned  toward  her,  th(;  love,  that  not 
death  itself  could  for  a  moment  vanquish,  shining  upon  her 
from  his  eyes.  She  was  over  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  hold- 
ing his  hands  in  hers — how,  she  could  never  have  told. 

"I  am  sorry — I  am  sorry!"  It  was  all  she  could  say. 
In  that  hour,  in  the  presence  of  death,  she  forgot  every- 
thing, her  wrciigs,  her  humiliation.  She  only  knew  that  he 
was  dying,  and  that  he  loved  her  as  she  would  never  be 
loved  again  in  this  world. 


THE   TELLING  OF   THE  SECRET. 


359 


■*'  It  is  better  as  it  is,"  she  heard  Iiim  saying,  when  she 
could  hear  at  all,  for  the  dull,  rushing  sound  in  her  ears  ; 
"far  better — far  better.  My  life  was  torture — could  never 
have  been  any  tiling  else,  though  I  lived  fifty  yeais.  1  was 
so  young — life  looked  so  long,  that  there  were  times,  ves, 
Edith,  times  when  for  liours  I  sat  debating  within  myself  a 
suicide's  cowardly  end.  But  Heaven  has  saved  me  from 
tiiat.  Death  has  mercifully  come  of  itself  to  set  all  things 
straight,  and  oh,  my  darling  I  to  bring _)w/." 

She  laid  her  face  upon  his  wasted  hand,  nearer  loving  him 
in  his  death  than  she  Iiad  ever  been  in  his  life. 

"You  have  suffered,"  lie  said  tenderly,  looking  at  her. 
"  I  thought  to  shield  you  from  every  care,  to  make  your  life 
one  long  dream  of  pleasure  and  happiness,  and  see  how  I 
have  done  it !  You  have  hated  me — scorned  me,  and  with 
justice;  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  Even  when  you  hear 
all,  you  may  not  be  able  to  forgive  inc,  and  yet,  Heaven 
knows,  I  did  it  all  for  the  best.  If  it  were  all  to  come  over 
again,  I  could  not  act  otherwise  than  as  I  have  acted.  JJut, 
my  darling,  it  was  very  hard  on  you." 

In  death  as  in  life  his  thoughts  were  not  of  himself  and 
his  own  stifferings,  but  of  her.  As  she  looked  at  him,  as 
she  recalled  what  he  had  been  only  a  year  ago,  in  the  Hush 
and  vigor  and  prime  of  manhood — it  seemed  almost  too 
much  to  bear. 

"  Oh,  Victor  !  hush,"  she  cried,  hiding  her  face  again, 
"you  break  my  heart !  " 

His  fetble  fingers  closed  over  hers  with  all  their  dying 
strength— that  faint,  hai)py  smile  came  over  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  want  to  distress  you,"  he  said  very  gently  ;  "you 
have  suffered  enough  without  that.  Edith,  I  feel  wonderfully 
happy  to-night — it  seems  to  me  I  have  no  wish  left — as 
though  I  were  sure  of  your  forgiveness  beforehand.  It  is 
joy  enough  to  see  you  here — to  feel  your  hand  in  mine  once 
more,  to  know  I  am  at  liberty  to  tell  you  the  truth  at  last. 
1  have  longed  for  this  hour  with  a  longing  I  can  never  de- 
scribe. Only  to  be  forgiven  and  die — I  wanted  no  more. 
For  what  would  life  have  been  without  you  ?  My  dearest, 
I  wojider  if  in  the  dark  days  that  are  gone,  whatever  you 
may  have  doubted,  my  honor,  my  sanity,  if  you  ever 
doubted  my  love  for  you  ?  " 


3^0 


THE   TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  in  a  stifled  voice.  "My 
thoughts  have  been  very  dark — very  desperate.  There  were 
times  when  there  seemed  no  liglit  on  earth,  no  hope  in 
Heaven.  I  dare  not  tell  you— I  dare  not  think — how 
wicked  and  reckless  my  heart  has  been." 

"  Poor  child  ! "  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  infinite  compas- 
sion, "  You  were  so  young — it  was  all  so  sudden,  so  terri- 
ble, so  incomprehensible.  Draw  up  that  hassock,  Edilh, 
and  sit  here  by  my  side,  and  listen.  No,  you  must  let  go 
my  hand.  How  can  I  tell  whether  you  will  not  shrink  frouj 
it  and  me  with  horror  when  you  know  all." 

VV^ithout  a  word,  she  drew  the  low  seat  close  to  the  bed, 
and  shading  her  face  with  her  hand,  listened,  motionless  as 
a  statue,  to  the  brief  story  of  the  secret  that  had  held  them 
apart  so  long. 

"  It  all  begins,"  Sir  Victor's  faint,  low  voice  said,  "with 
the  night  of  my  father's  death,  three  weeks  before  our  wed- 
ding-day. That  night  I  learned  the  secret  of  my  mother's 
murder,  and  learned  to  pity  my  unha[)i)y  father  as  I  had 
never  pitied  him  before.  Do  you  remember,  Edith,  the 
words  you  spoke  to  Lady  Helena  the  day  before  you  ran 
away  from  Powyss  Place  ?  You  said  Inez  Catheion  was  not 
the  murderer,  though  she  had  been  accused  of  it,  nor  Juan 
Catheron,  though  he  had  been  suspected  of  it — that  you  be- 
lieved Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  killed  his  own  wife,  Edith, 
you  were  right.  Sir  Victor  Catheron  murdered  his  own 
wife ! 

"  I  learned  it  that  flital  night.  T.ady  Helena  and  Inez  had 
known  it  all  along.  Juan  Catheron  more  than  suspected 
it.  Bad  as  he  was,  he  kept  that  secret.  My  mother  was 
stabbed  by  my  father's  hand. 

"  Why  did  he  do  it  ?  you  ask.  I  answer,  because  he  was 
mad — mad  for  weeks  before.  And  he  knew  it,  though  no 
one  else  did.  With  the  cunning  of  insanity  he  ke|)t  his  se- 
cret, not  even  his  wife  susi)ected  that  his  reason  was  un- 
sound. He  was  a  monomaniac.  Insanity,  as  you  have 
heajd,  is  hereditary  in  our  family,  in  different  phases ;  the 
phase  it  took  with  him  was  homicidal  mania.  On  all  other 
points  he  was  sane — on  this,  almost  from  the  first,  he  had 
been  insane — the  desire  to  take  his  wif^s  life. 

"  It  is  horrible,  is  it  not — almost  incredibly  horrible  ?     It 


THE    TELUNG   OF   THE  SECRET. 


361 


is  true,  nevertheless.  Before  the  honeymoon  was  ended, 
his  homicidal  mania devt;h)ped  itself — an  almost  insurmount- 
able desire,  whenever  lie  was  alone  in  iier  presence,  to  take 
iicr  life.  Out  of  the  very  depth  and  intensity  of  his  passion 
for  her  his  madness  arose.  He  loved  her  with  the  whole 
strength  of  his  heart  and  being,  and  the  mad  longing  was 
with  him  always,  to  end  her  life  while  she  was  all  his  own — 
in  sliort,  to  kill  her. 

"  He  could  not  help  it ;  he  knew  his  madness — he  shrank 
in  horror  from  it — he  battled  with  it — he  prayed  for  help — 
and  for  over  a  year  he  controlled  himself.  But  it  was  al- 
ways there — always.  How  long  it  might  have  lain  dormant 
— how  long  he  would  h^:  e  been  able  to  withstand  his  mad 
desire,  no  one  can  tell.  But  Juan  Catheron  came  and 
claimed  her  as  his  wite,  and  jealousy  finished  what  a  dreadful 
hereditary  insanity  had  begun. 

"On  that  fatal  evening  he  had  seen  them  together  some- 
where in  the  grounds,  and  though  he  hid  what  he  felt,  the 
sight  had  goaded  him  almost  to  frenzy.  Then  came  the 
summons  from  Lady  Helena  to  go  to  Powyss  Place.  He 
set  out,  but  before  he  had  gone  half-way,  the  demon  of 
jealously  whispered  in  his  ear,  *  Your  wife  is  with  Juan  Cath- 
eron now — go  back  and  surprise  them.'  He  turned  and 
went  back — a  madman — the  last  glimpse  of  reason  and  self- 
control  gone.  He  saw  his  wife,  not  with  Juan  Catheron, 
but  peacefully  and  innocently  asleep  by  the  open  window 
of  the  room  where  he  had  left  her.  The  dagger,  used  as  a 
paper  knife,  lay  on  the  table  near.  1  say  he  was  utterly 
mad  for  the  time.  In  a  moment  the  knife  was  up  to  the 
hilt  in  her  heart,  dealing  death  with  that  one  strong  blow  I 
He  drew  it  out  and — she  lay  dead  before  him. 

"  Then  a  great,  an  awful  horror,  fell  upon  him.  Not  of 
the  consequence  of  his  crime  ;  only  of  that  which  lay  so  still 
and  white  before  him.  He  turned  like  the  madman  he  was 
and  fled.  By  some  strange  chance  he  met  no  one.  In 
passing  through  the  gates  he  flimg  the  dagger  among  the 
fern,  leaped  on  his  horse,  and  was  gone. 

"  He  rode  straight  to  Powyss  Place.     Before  he  reached 

it  some  of  insanity's  cunning  returned  to  him.     He  must 

not  let  people  know  he  had  done  it ;  they  would  fnul  out  lie 

was  mad ;  they  would  shut  him  u^)  in  a  madhouse ;  they 

10 


363 


THE   TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET. 


would  shrink  from  him  in  loathing  and  iiorror.  How  he 
managed  it,  he  told  me  with  his  dying  hrcath,  he  never 
knew — he  did  someliow.  No  one  suspected  iiim,  only  Inez 
Catheron,  returning  to  the  nursery,  had  seen  ail — had  seen 
the  deadly  blow  struck,  lunl  seen  his  instant  ilight,  and  stood 
siK'H-hound,  sjjeechless  and  motionless  as  a  stone.  Me  re- 
membered no  more — the  dark  night  of  oblivion  and  total 
insanity  closed  about  him  only  to  open  at  briefest  intervals 
from  that  to  tiie  hour  of  his  death. 

"That,  Edith,  was  the  awful  story  I  was  told  that  night— 
the  story  that  has  ruined  and  wrecked  my  whole  life  and 
yours.  I  listened  to  it  all  as  you  sit  and  listen  now,  still  as  a 
stone,  frozen  with  a  horror  too  intense  for  words.  I  can  re- 
call as  clearly  now  as  the  moment  I  heard  them  the  last 
words  he  ever  spoke  to  me  : 

" '  I  tell  you  this  partly  because  I  am  dying,  and  I  think 
you  ought  to  know,  partly  because  I  want  to  warn  you. 
They  tell  me  you  are  about  to  be  married.  Victor,  beware 
what  you  do.  The  dreadful  taint  is  in  your  blood  as  it  was 
in  mine — you  love  her  as  I  loved  the  wife  1  murdered. 
Again  I  say  take  care — take  care  !,  Be  warned  by  me  ;  my 
fate  may  be  yours,  your  mother's  fate  hers.  It  is  my  wisli, 
I  would  say  command,  if  I  dared,  that  you  never  marry  ; 
that  you  let  the  name  and  the  curse  die  out;  that  no  more 
sons  may  be  born  to  hei  r  the  gliastly  story  I  have  told  you.' 

"  I  could  listen  to  no  more,  1  rushed  from  the  room,  from 
the  house,  out  into  tha  darkness  and  the  rain,  as  if  the  cuise 
he  spoke  of  had  already  come  ui)on  me — as  tliough  I  were 
already  going  mad.  How  long  I  remained,  what  I  diil,  I 
don't  know.  Soul  and  body  seemed  in  a  whirl.  Tlie  next 
thing  I  knew  was  my  aunt  summoning  me  into  the  house. 
My  most  miserable  father  was  dead. 

''Then  canje  the  funeral.  I  would  not,  could  not  think. 
I  drove  the  last  warning  he  had  spoken  out  of  my  mind. 
I  clenched  my  teeth — 1  swore  that  1  would  «t?/ give  you  up. 
Not  for  the  raving  of  a  thousand  madmen,  not  for  the  warn- 
ing of  a  thousand  dying  fathers.  From  that  hour  1  was  a 
clianged  man — from  that  hour  my  doom  was  sealed. 

"  1  returned  to  Powyss  Place,  but  not  as  I  had  left.  I 
was  a  haunted  man.  By  day  and  night — all  night  long,  all 
day  through,  the  awful  warning  pursued  me.     *  My  f4te  \y\o^y 


THE   TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


363 


be  yours — your  mother's  fate  hers l^  It  was  my  destiny, 
there  was  no  escape ;  my  mother's  doom  would  be  yours ; 
on  our  wedding-day  I  was  fated  to  kill  you  I  It  was  writ- 
ten.    Nothing  could  avert  it. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  the  family  taint  was  always  latent 
within  me,  or  that  it  was  continual  brooding  on  what  I  had 
heard,  but  the  fate  certainly  befell  me.  My  father's  homi- 
cidal mania  becanie  mine.  Edith,  I  felt  it,  felt  the  dreadful 
whisper  in  my  ear,  the  awful  desire  stirring  in  my  heart,  to 
lift  my  hand  and  take  your  life  1  Often  and  often  have  I 
fled  from  your  presence  when  I  felt  the  temptation  growing 
stronger  than  I  could  withstand. 

"  And  yet  I  would  not  give  you  up  ;  that  is  where  I  can 
never  forgive  myself.  I  could  not  tell  you  ;  I  could  not 
draw  back  then.  I  hoped  against  hope  ;  it  seemed  like  tearing 
body  and  soul  asunder,  the  thought  of  losing  you.  '  Come 
what  may,'  I  cried,  in  my  anguish,  'she  shall  be  my  wife  !' 

"  Our  wedding-day  came  ;  the  day  that  should  have  been 
the  most  blessed  of  my  life,  that  was  the  most  miserable. 
All  the  night  before,  all  that  morning,  the  demon  within  me 
had  been  battling  for  the  victory.  I  could  not  exorcise  it ;  it 
stood  between  us  at  the  altar.  Then  came  our  silent, 
strange  wedding-journey.  I  wonder  sometimes,  as  I  looked 
at  you,  so  still,  so  pale,  so  beautiful,  what  you  must  think.  I 
dare  not  look  at  you  often,  I  dare  not  speak  to  you,  dare  not 
think  of  you.  I  felt  if  I  did  I  should  lose  all  control  of  my- 
self, and  slay  you  there  and  then. 

"  I  wonder,  as  you  sit  and  listen  there,  my  love,  my  bride, 
whether  it  is  pity  or  loathing  that  fills  your  heart.  And  yet 
I  deserved  pity ;  what  I  suffered  no  tongue  can  ever  tell. 
I  knew  myself  mad,  knew  that  sooner  or  later  my  madness 
would  be  stronger  than  myself,  and  then  it  came  upon  me 
so  forcibly  when  we  reached  Carnarvon,  that  I  tied  from  you 
again  and  went  wandering  away  by  myself,  wliere,  I  knew 
not.  '  Sooner  or  later  you  will  kill  her  ; '  that  thought  alone 
filled  me  ;  'it  is  as  certain  as  that  you  live  and  stand  here. 
You  will  kill  this  girl  who  trusts  you  ?.nd  who  has  married 
you,  who  does  not  dream  she  has  married  a  demon  athirst 
for  her  blood.' 

"I  went  wild  then.  I  fell  down  on  my  knees  in  the  wet 
grass,  and   held  up   my  hands   to  the   sky.     '  O  G  jU  I  *  i 


364 


THE    TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET. 


cried  out  in  despair,  'show  me  what  to  do.  Don't  let  me 
kill  my  darling.  Strike  nic  dead  where  I  kneel  sooner  than 
that  ! '  And  with  the  words  the  bilterness  of  death  seemed 
to  pass,  and  great  calm  fell.  In  tliat  calm  a  voice  spoke 
clearly,  and  said  : 

"  Leave  her  i  Leave  your  bride  while  there  is  yet  time. 
It  is  the  only  way.  Leave  her !  She  d(ies  not  love  you — 
she  will  not  care.  Better  that  you  should  break  your  heart 
and  die,  than  that  you  should  harm  a  iiair  of  her  head.' 

"  I  heard  it  as  plainly,  Eduh,  as  I  hear  my  own  voice  speak- 
ing now.  I  rose — my  resolution  taken — a  great,  unutterable 
peace  filling  my  heart.  In  my  exalted  state  it  seemed  so 
easy — I  alone  would  be  the  sufferer,  not  you — ^!  would  go. 

"  I  went  back.  The  first  sight  1  aaw  was  you,  my  darling, 
sitting  by  the  o[)en  window,  fast  asleep.  Fast  asleep,  as  my 
mother  had  been  that  dreadful  night.  If  anything  had  been 
wanting  to  confirm  my  resolution,  that  would  have  done  it. 
I  wrote  the  note  of  farewell ;  1  came  in  and  kissed  your  dear 
hands,  and  went  away  from  you  forever.  O  love  !  it  seemed 
easy  then,  but  my  heart  broke  in  that  hoar.  I  could  not 
live  without  you  ;  thank  Heaven  !  the  sacrifice  is  not  asked. 
I  have  told  you  all — it  lay  between  two  things — I  must  leave 
you,  or  in  my  mndness  kill  you.  Pklith,  it  would  have  hap- 
pened. You  have  heard  my  story — you  know  all — the 
dreadful  secret  tiiat  has  held  us  asunder.  It  is  for  you  to  say 
whether  1  can  be  forgiven  or  not." 

She  had  all  the  tinie  been  sitting,  her  fiice  hidden  in  her 
hands,  never  stirring  or  speaking.  Now  she  arose  and  fell 
once  more  on  her  knees  beside  him,  tears  pouring  from  her 
eyes.  She  drew  his  head  into  her  arms,  she  stooped  down, 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  kissed  again  and  again  the 
lips  of  the  man  she  had  married. 

"  Forgive  you  !  "  she  said.  "  O  my  husband,  my  mar- 
tyr I  It  is  I  who  must  be  forgiven  1  You  are  an  angel,  not 
a  man  ! " 


THE  LAST  ENDING   OF   THE   TRAGEDY. 


365 


CHAPTER   VI. 


THE  LAST  ENDING  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 

[N  hour  later,  when  Lady  Helena  softly  opened  the 
door  and  came  in,  she  found  them  still  so,  his  weak 
head  resting  in  her  arms  as  she  knelt,  her  bowed 
face  hidden,  her  falling  tears  hardly  yet  dried.  One 
look  into  his  radiant  eyes,  into  the  unspeakable  joy  and 
peace  of  his  face,  told  her  the  story.  All  had  been  revealed, 
all  had  been  forgiven.  On  the  anniversary  of  their  most 
melancholy  wedding-day  husband  and  wife  were  reunited  at 
last. 

There  was  no  need  of  words.  She  stooped  over  and  si- 
lently kissed  both. 

"  it  is  growing  late,  rdidi,"  she  said  gently,  "  and  you 
must  be  tired  after  your  journey.  You  will  go  up  to  your 
room  now.     I  will  watch  with  Victor  to-night." 

But  Pklith  only  drew  him  closer,  and  looked  up  with  dark, 
imploring  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  no,  no !  I  will  never  leave  him  again. 
I  am  not  in  the  least  tired.  Lady  Helena;  1  w'U  stay  and 
share  your  watch." 

"  r>ut,  my  dear—" 

"  O  Lady  Helena — aunt — don't  you  sec — I  must  do  some- 
thing— tnake  reparation  in  some  way.  What  a  wretch — what 
a  wretch  1  have  been.  Oh,  why  did  I  not  know  all  sooner? 
Victor,  why  did  I  not  know  you  I  To  remember  what  my 
thougiits  of  you  have  been,  anil  all  the  time  -all  the  time — 
it  was  for  me.  If  you  die  I  sliall  feel  as  though  I  were  your 
murderess." 

Her  voice  choked  in  a  tearless  sob.  She  had  hated  him — 
loathed  him — almost  wislied,  in  her  wickedness,  for  his  death, 
and  all  the  time  he  was  yielding  up  his  life  in  his  love  for  her. 

"  You  will  let  me  stay  with  you,  Victor?  "  she  pleaded  al- 
most passionately  ;  "  (lon't  ask  me  to  go.  We  have  been 
l)arted  long  enough  ;  let  me  be  with  you  until — "  again  her 
voice  choked  and  died  away. 

With  a  great  effort  he  lifted  one  of  her  hands  to  his  lips — 
that  radiant  smile  of  great  joy  on  his  face. 


366 


THE  LAST  END  TAG   OF  THE   TRAGEDY. 


"  She  talks  almost  as  if  she  loved  me,"  he  said. 

"  Love  you  !  O  Victor  ! — husband — if  I  had  only  known, 
if  I  had  only  known  !  " 

"  Jf  you  had  known,"  he  repeated,  looking  at  her  with  wist- 
ful eyes.  "  Eduli,  if  you  really  had  known — if  I  had  dared  to 
tell  you  all  I  have  told  you  to-niglu,would  you  not  have  slirunk 
from  nie  in  fear  and  horror,  as  a  monster  who  pretended  to 
love  you  and  yet  longed  for  your  life  ?  Sane  on  all  o'u.jr 
points — how  would  you  have  compreliended  my  strange  mad- 
ness on  that  ?  It  is  gone  now — tliank  God — in  my  weakness 
and  dying  hour,  and  tliere  is  nothing  but  tlie  love  left.  IJut 
my  own,  if  1  had  told  you,  if  you  had  known,  would  you  not 
have  feared  and  left  me  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  brave,  steadfast,  shining  eyes. 

"  If  I  had  known,"  she  answered,  ''  how  your  fiitlier  killed 
your  mother,  iiow  his  madness  was  yours,  1  would  have  pitied 
you  with  all  my  heart,  and  out  of  that  pity  I  would  have 
loved  you.  I  would  never  have  left  you — never.  I  could 
never  have  feared  you,  Victor;  and  this  I  know — wliat  you 
dreaded  never  would  have  come  to  pass.  1  am  as  sure  of  it 
as  that  I  kneel  here.  You  would  never  have  lifted  your 
hand  against  my  life." 

"  You  think  so?"     Still  with  that  wistful,  earnest  gaze. 

"  1  know  so — I  feel  it— 1  am  sure  of  it.  You  could  not 
have  done  it — I  should  never  have  been  afraid  of  it,  and  in 
time  your  delusion  would  have  worn  entirely  away.  You 
arc  naturally  superstitious  and  excitable- — morbid,  even  ; 
tlie  dreadful  excitement  of  your  father's  story  and  warning, 
were  too  much  for  you  to  bear  alone.  That  is  all.  If  you 
could  have  told  me— if  1  could  have  laughed  at  your  hypo- 
chrondical  terrors,  your  cure  would  have  been  half  elTecleil. 
No,  Victor,  1  say  it  again — I  would  never  have  left  you,  and 
you  would  never  have  liarmed  a  hair  of  my  head." 

Her  tone  of  resolute  conviction  seemed  to  bring  convic- 
tion even  to  him.  The  sad,  wistful  light  deepened  in  his 
blue  eyes. 

"  Then  it  has  all  been  in  vain,"  he  said  very  sadly  ;  "  the 
sutTering  and  the  sacrifice — all  these  miserable  nonlhs  of 
separation  and  pain." 

Again  l,ady  Helena  advanced  and  interposed,  this  time 
with  authority. 


THE  LAST  ENDING    OF   TFTE    TRAGEDY. 


367 


"  It  won't  do,"  she  said  ;  "  Edith  yon  in  list  go.  All  this 
talking  and  excitement  may  end  fatally.  If  you  won't  leave 
him  he  won't  sleei)  :i  wink  to-niglu  ;  and  if  he  jxisses  a  sleep- 
less niglit  who  is  to  answer  for  tlie  consec[uences?  For  his 
sake  you  must  go.  Victor  tell  her  to  go — she  will  obey 
you." 

She  looked  at  liim  beseecliingly,  but  he  saw  that  Lady 
Helena  was  right,  and  that  Edith  iierself  needed  rest.  It 
was  easy  to  make  one  more  sacrifice  now,  and  send  her 
away. 

"  I  am  afraid  Aunt  Helena  is  riglit,"  he  said  faintly.  "  I 
must  confess  to  feeling  exhausted,  and  1  know  you  need  a 
night's  sleep,  so  that  I  may  have  you  with  me  all  day  to- 
morrow. For  a  few  hours,  dear  love,  let  me  send  you 
away." 

She  rose  at  once  with  a  parting  caress,  and  made  him 
comfortable  among  his  jjillows. 

"  Good-nigiu,''  she  whis|)ered.  "  Try  to  sleep,  and  be 
strong  to  talk  to  ine  to-morrow.  Oh  !  "  ?he  breathed  as  she 
turned  away,  "  if  the  elixir  of  life  were  only  not  a  fable — if 
the  days  of  miracles  were  not  past,  if  he  only  might  be  re- 
stored to  us,  how  happy  we  all  could  be  !  " 

Lady  Helena  heard  her,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  too  late  for  that,"  she  said  ;  "when  suffering  is  pro- 
longed beyond  a  certain  point  there  is  but  one  remedy — 
death.  If  your  miracle  could  take  place  and  he  be  restored, 
he  has  undergone  too  much  ever  to  live  on  and  be  hai)py 
and  forget.  There  can  only  be  one  ending  to  such  a  year 
as  he  has  passed,  and  that  ending  is  very  near." 

lOdith  went  to  her  room — one  of  the  exquisite  suite  that 
had  been  prepared  for  her  a  year  before.  She  was  occupy- 
ing it  at  last,  but  how  dilTerently  from  what  she  had  ever 
thonght.  She  remembered  this  night  twelve  months  so  well, 
the  strange  vigil  in  which  she  had  si)ent  in  taking  iier  fare- 
well of  those  letters  and  that  picture,  and  waiting  for  her 
wt  (Kling  day  to  dawn. 

To- night  she  slept,  deeply  and  soundly,  and  awoke  to  fmd 
the  October  sun  shining  brightly  in.  Was  he  still  alive  ?  It 
was  hei  first  thought.  Death  might  have  come  at  any  mo- 
ment. She  arose — sli[)ped  on  a  drcsbing  gown,  and  rang  the 
bell. 


368 


THE  LAST  ENDLVG   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 


It  was  Inez  who  answered  in  person. 

"  I  heard  your  bell,"  she  said  as  she  kissed  her  good- 
morning,  "and  I  knew  what  you  wanted.  Ves,  he  is  still 
aUve,  but  very  v;eak  and  helpless  this  morning.  The  excite- 
ment and  joy  of  last  night  were  almost  too  much  for  him. 
And  he  remembers  what  anniversary  this  is." 

Edith  turned  away — some  of  the  bitterness,  some  of  the 
pain  of  loss  she  knew  he  was  enduring  tilling  her  own  heart. 

"  If  I  had  only  known  I  if  1  had  only  known  ! "  was  again 
her  cry. 

"  If  you  had — if  he  had  told — I  believe  with  you  all  would 
have  been  well.  But  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  that — he  be- 
lieved differently.  The  terrible  secret  of  the  fatlicr  has 
wrought  its  terrible  retribution  upon  the  son.  If  he  had  told 
you  when  he  returned  from  Poplar  Lodge,  you  would  have 
been  happy  together  to-day.  You  are  so  strong — your  mind 
so  healthful — some  of  your  strength  and  courage  would  have 
been  imparted  to  him.  But  it  is  too  late  now — all  is  over — ■ 
we  have  only  to  make  him  happy  while  he  is  left  with  us." 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  I "  Edith's  heart  echoed  desolately. 
In  those  hours  of  his  death  she  was  nearer  loving  her  hus- 
band than  perhaps  she  could  ever  have  been  had  lie  lived. 

"  I  will  send  breakfast  up  here,"  said  Inez,  turning  to  go ; 
"  when  you  have  breakfasted,  go  to  him  at  once.  He  is 
awake  and  waiting  for  you." 

Edith  made  her  toilet.  Breakfa'-t  came  ;  and,  despite  re- 
morse and  grief,  when  one  is  nine."  a  one  can  eat.  Then 
she  hurried  away  to  the  sick-room. 

He  was  lying  much  as  she  had  'eft  him,  propped  up 
among  the  pillows — his  far  ""hiter  th,.n  the  linen  and  lace, 
whiter  than  snow.  By  ."  ..ii,.it  she  saw  fully  the  gliastly 
change  in  him — saw  llin'  his  fair  hair  was  thickly  strewn 
with  gray,  that  the  awful,  indiscribable  change  that  goes  be- 
fore was  already  on  his  face.  Is  breathing  was  labored 
and  panting — he  had  suffered  intensely  with  spasms  of  the 
heart  all  night,  sleei)ing  none  at  all.  This  morning  the 
paroxysms  of  pain  had  passed,  but  he  lay  utterly  worn  and 
exhausted,  the  cold  dami)  of  infinite  misery  on  his  brow,  the 
chill  of  death  already  on  hands  and  limbs.  He  lav  before 
her,  the  total  wreck  of  the  gallant,  hopeful,  hand.some  gen- 
tleman, whom  only  one  year  ago  she  ha.l  married. 


THE  LAST  ENDING   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 


369 


But  the  familiar  smile  she  knew  so  well  was  on  his  lips 
and  in  his  eyes  as  he  saw  her.  She  could  not  speak  for  a 
moment  as  she  looked  at  him — in  silence  she  took  her 
l)lace  close  by  his  side. 

He  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence,  in  a  voice  so  faint 
as  hardly  to  be  more  than  a  whispe*-  "  How  had  she 
slept — how  did  she  feel  ?  She  looked  pale,  he  thought — 
surely  she  was  not  ill  ?  " 

"  1  ?"  she  said  bitterly.  "  O,  no— I  am  never  ill — noth- 
ing ever  seems  to  hurt  hard,  heartless  people  like  mc.  It  is 
the  good  and  the  generous  who  suffer.  1  have  the  happy 
knack  of  making  all  who  love  me  miserable,  but  my  own 
health  never  fails.  I  don't  dare  to  ask  you  what  sort  of 
night  you  have  had — I  see  it  in  your  face.  My  coming 
brings,  as  it  always  does,  more  ill  than  good." 

"  No,"  he  said,  almost  with  energy  ;  "  a  hundred  times 
no  !  Ah,  love  !  your  coining  has  made  me  the  happiest  man 
on  earth.  I  seem  to  have  nothing  left  to  wish  for  now.  As 
to  the  night — the  spasms  did  trouble  me,  but  I  feel  deli- 
ciously  easy  and  at  rest  this  morning,  and  uncommonly  happy. 
Edith,  I  talked  so  nnich  last  evening  I  gave  you  no  ciiance. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  now  all  about  the  year  that  has  gone 
— all  about  yourself." 

"  There  is  so  little  to  tell,"  she  responded  ;  "  it  was  really 
humdriun  and  uneventful.  Nothing  nmch  hap-  ened  to  me; 
I  looked  for  work  and  got  it.  Oh,  don't  be  distressed  !  it 
was  easy,  pleasant  work  enough,  and  I  v.  ,is  much  better  busy. 
I  begin  to  believe  plenty  of  hard  worl;  is  a  real  blessing  to 
dissatisfied,  restless  people — you  can'!  be  very  miserable 
when  you  are  very  busy-  you  haven't  time  lor  luxuries.  I 
got  along  very  well,  and  never  was  ill  an  hour." 

"But,  tell  me,"  he  persisted;  "you  don't  know  how  I 
long  to  hear.     Tell  me  all  about  your  life  after — after — " 

"Hush!"  she  interposed,  holding  his  hands  tight.  "You 
were  the  sufferer,  not  I.  O  my  poor  boy  !  1  never  was 
half  worthy  such  a  heart  as  yours.  I  am  only  beginning  to 
nali/e  how  selfish,  and  cruel  and  hard  I  iKive  been.  But, 
with  Heaven's  help,  1  will  try  and  be  dilferent  from  this 
day." 

She  told  him  the  story  of  her  life,  from  the  time  of  her 
flight  from  Powyss  I'lace  to  the  present,  glossing  over  all 
10* 


370 


THE  LAST  ENDING   OF   THE   TRAGEDY. 


that  was  dark,  making  the  mo?t  of  all  •ni':  was  bright.  But 
he  understood  licr — he  knew  liow  her  j.:.uc  had  buffered  and 
bled. 

"  I  never  thought  of  your  going  sway."  he  said  sadly.  "  I 
might  have  known  you  better,  but  I  d:d  not — I  was  so  sure 
you  would  have  stayed,  if  not  with  Lady  Helena,  then  iu  sonic 
safe  shelter;  that  you  would  have  uien  what  was  justly 
yours.  I  was  stunned  when  I  first  beaid  of  your  tligiit.  1 
searched  for  you  everywhere — in  America  and  all.  Did  jou 
know  I  went  to  America,  Edith?" 

"Inez  told  me,"  she  answered  faintly. 

"  I  could  not  find  your  father — I  could  not  find  the  Stu- 
arts. I  must  have  been  very  stuj^iJ  somehow — I  could  find 
no  one.  Then  arrived  that  day  when  I  saw  you  in  the  Ox- 
ford Street  shop,  when  1  tried  to  foliow  y<xi  home  and  could 
not.  What  an  evening  it  was  !  Then  catae  uiy  last  desper- 
ate hope  when  I  sent  Inez  to  you  aiad  failed.  It  seemed 
almost  hardest  to  bear  of  all." 

"If  I  had  only  known — if  I  had  only  known  I"  was  still 
her  cry. 

"Yes,  the  trouble  lay  there.  With  your  pride  you  could 
not  act  otherwise  than  as  you  did.  For  you  are  very  proud, 
my  dailing,"  with  a  smile.      "  Do  you  know  it?" 

"Very  proud— very  heartless — ven- sctn-ih/'  she  answered 
brokenly.  "Oh,  no  need  to  te]]  me  how  base  I  have 
been  !  " 

"Yet,  I  think  I  like  you  the  better  for  your  pride  ;  and  I 
foresee — yes,  1  foresee,  that  one  day  you  will  be  a  happy 
woman,  with  as  noble,  and  loving,  and  generous  a  heait  as 
ever  beat.  I  undeistand  you,  ii  scews  to  me  now,  belter 
than  you  understand  yourself.  One  day — it  may  be  years 
from  now — the  happiness  of  your  life  will  come  to  you. 
Don't  let  pride  stand  between  you  and  it  then,  Kdith.  I 
hoi)e  that  day  may  come — 1  i»ray  for  il.  Lying  in  my  grave, 
love,  I  think  I  shall  rest  easit-r  if  I  kaw^w  ly^  are  happy  on 
earth." 

"Don't!  don't!"  she  said;  "I  cannot  bear  it!  Your 
goodness  breaks  my  heart." 

"  There  is  one  thing  1  must  ask,  Edith,"  he  resumed  after 
a  pause  ;  "a  last  favor.     You  wili  grant  it,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Victor  !  is  there  an)  iliing  1  wouki  mat  i^raiu  ?  " 


THE  LAST  ENDING   OF   THE   TRAGEDY. 


371 


"  It  is  this,  then — (hat  when  I  am  gone,  you  will  take  what 
is  your  right  anil  your  clue.  This  you  must  promise  nie;  no 
nioic  false  pride — the  widow  of  Sir  Victor  Catiicron  must 
lake  wiiat  is  hers.  Juan  Catheron  is  married  to  a  Creole 
lady,  and  living  in  the  island  of  Martinique,  a  reformed  man. 
He  inherits  the  title  and  Catheron  Royals,  with  its  income, 
as  heir  at-law,  For  the  rest  you  have  your  jointure  as  my 
widow ;  and  my  grandmother's  large  fortune,  which  de- 
scended to  me,  I  have  beciueathcd  to  you  in  my  will.  So 
that  when  I  leave  you,  my  dearest,  I  leave  you  safe  from  all 
pecuniary  troubles.  It  is  my  last  wish — nay,  my  last  com- 
mand, that  yon  take  all  without  hesitation.  You  promise 
me  tliis,  Edith  ?  " 

"  I  i^romise,"  she  answered  lowly.  She  could  not  look  at 
him — it  seemed  like  the  Scriptural  words,  "heaping  coals  of 
fire  on  her  head.' 

Then  for  a  long  time  there  was  silence.  He  lay  back 
among  the  pillows  with  closed  eyes,  utterly  exhausted,  but 
looking  very  hajipy.  The  bitterness  of  death  was  passed — 
a  great  peace  had  come.  With  the  wife  he  loved  beside  him, 
her  hand  clasped  in  his,  he  could  go  forth  in  ])eace,  knowing 
that  in  her  heart  there  was  notliing  but  affection  and  forgive- 
ness— that  one  day,  in  the  future,  she  would  be  happy.  In 
his  death  as  in  his  life  he  was  thorougiily  unsehish.  It 
brought  no  pang  to  him  now  to  feel  that  years  after  the  grass 
grew  over  his  grave  she  would  be  the  Iiappy  wife  of  a  hap- 
l)icr  man.  He  talked  little  more  ;  he  dozed  at  intervals  dur- 
ing the  dav.  Edith  never  left  inm  for  a  moment.  His  aunt 
and  cousin  shared  her  watch  off  and  on  all  day.  They  could 
all  see  that  the  last  great  change  was  near.  Pain  had  left 
him — he  was  entirely  at  rest. 

"  Read  to  me,  Fdith,"  he  said  once  as  the  day  wore  on. 
She  took  up  a  volume  of  sermons  that  Eady  Helena  was 
fond  of.  She  opened  it,  haphazard,  and  read.  And  pres- 
ently she  came  to  this,  reading  of  the  crosses  and  trials  and 
sorrows  of  life  :  "And  Cod  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  froia 
their  eyes,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death  ;  neither  sor- 
row nor  crying ;  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  so  radiant  a  light,  so 
infinite  a  th  inkfnlness,  th.it  she  could  read  no  more.  Her 
voice  choked — she  laid  the  book  down.     Later,  as  the  sun- 


372 


THE  LAST  ENDING   OF   THE    TRAGEDY. 


set  came  streaming  in,  he  awoke  from  a  long  slumber,  and 
looked  at  the  glittering  l)ars  of  light  lying  on  the  carpet. 

*'  Open  the  window,  Edith,"  he  said ;  "  I  want  to  see  the 
sun  set  once  more." 

She  obeyed.  All  flushed  with  rose  light,  and  gold  and 
amythist  splendor,  the  evening  sky  glowed  like  the  very 
gates  of  paradise. 

•'  It  is  beautiful,"  Edith  said,  but  its  untold  beauty  brought 
to  her  somehow  a  sharp  pang  of  pain. 

"  Beautiful  !  "  he  repeated  in  an  ecstatic  whisper.  "  O 
love  !  if  earth  is  so  beautiful,  what  must  Heaven  be  !  " 

Then  she  heard  him  softly  repeat  to  himsulf  the  words  she 
had  read  ;  "And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death  ;  neitlier  sorrow  nor 
crying  ;  neither  shall  tliere  be  any  more  pain,"  He  drew  a 
long,  long  breath,  like  one  who  is  very  weary  and  sees  rest 
near. 

"  Darling,"  he  said,  "how  pale  you  are — white  as  a  si)irit. 
Go  out  for  a  little  into  the  air — don't  mind  leaving  me.  I 
feel  sleepy  again." 

She  kissed  him  and  went.  All  her  after  life  she  was  glad 
to  remember  their  last  parting  had  been  with  a  caress  on  her 
part,  a  happy  smile  on  his.  She  descended  the  steps  lead- 
ing from  the  window  with  unquestioning  obedience,  and 
passed  out  into  the  rose  and  gold  light  of  the  sunset.  She 
remained  perhaps  fifteen  minutes — certainly  not  more.  The 
red  light  of  the  October  sky  was  fast  paling  to  cold  gray — 
the  white  October  moon  was  rising.  She  went  back.  He 
still  lay  as  she  had  left  him — his  eyes  were  closed — she 
thought  he  was  asleep.  She  bent  over  him,  close — closer — 
growing  white  almost  as  himself.  And  then  she  knew  what 
it  was. 

"  And  there  shall  be  no  more  death  ;  neither  sorrow  nor 
crying  ;  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain." 

A  cry  rang  through  the  room,  the  long,  wailing  cry  of 
widowhood.  She  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  bed.  An  hour 
after,  the  passing  bell  tolled  sombrely  through  the  darkness 
from  the  steeple  of  Cheshohn  Church,  telling  all  whom  il 
might  concern  that  Sir  Victor  Catheron  had  gone  home. 


Tlf'O    YEARS  AFTER. 


373 


CHAPTER  VII. 


TWO   YEARS   AFTER. 


INE  brilliant,  August  noonday  a  Cunard  ship  steamed 
gallantly  down  the  Mersey  snd  out  into  the  open 
sea. 

There  were  a  great  number  of  passengers  on 
board — every  cabin,  every  berth,  was  filled.  Every  country 
under  Heaven,  it  seemed,  was  represented.  Afler  the  fust 
two  or  three  days  out,  after  the  first  three  or  four  times 
assembling  around  the  dinner-table  and  congregating  on 
the  sunny  decks,  people  began  to  know  all  about  one 
another,  to  learn  each  other's  names  and  histories. 

There  was  one  lady  passenger  who  from  the  iirst  excited 
a  great  deal  of  talk  and  curiosity.  A  darkly  handsome 
young  lady  in  widow's  weeds,  who  rather  held  herself  aloof 
from  everybody,  and  who  seemed  all  sutBcient  unto  herself. 
A  young  lady,  pitifully  young  to  wear  that  sombre  dress  and 
widow's  cap,  remarkable  anywhere  for  her  beauty,  and 
dignity,  and  grace.  Who  was  she  ?  as  with  one  voice  all 
the  gentlemen  on  beard  cried  out  that  question  the  moment 
they  saw  her  Iirst. 

She  was  a  lady  of  rank  and  title,  an  English  lady,  travel- 
ling with  her  two  servants — otherwise  (juite  alone — the 
name  on  the  passenger  list  was  Lady  Catheron. 

For  the  first  two  days  that  was  all  that  could  be  ascer- 
tained—  just  enough  to  whet  curiosity  to  burnii)g-i)oint. 
Then  in  the  solitude  and  seclusion  of  the  ladies'  cabin  the 
maid  servant  became  confidential  with  one  of  the  steward- 
esses, and  narrated,  after  the  manner  of  maids,  her  mistress's 
history  as  far  as  she  knew  it.  The  stewardess  retailed  it  lo 
the  lady  passengers,  and  the  lady  passengers  gave  it  at  third 
hand  to  tiie  gentlemen.     This  is  what  it  was  : 

Lady  Catheron,  young  as  she  looked  and  was,  had  never- 
theless been  a  widow  for  two  years.  Her  husband  iuid 
been  Sir  Victor  Catheron,  of  Cheshire,  who  had  died  after 
the  first  year  of  married  felicity,  leaving  an  immensely  rich 
widow. .    Miserable  Sir  Victor !  thought  all  the  gentlemen. 


374 


TfVO    YEARS  AFTER. 


She — Sarah  Bctts,  the  maid — had  not  known  her  ladyship 
during  the  year  of. her  married  life,  she  iiad  been  engaged 
in  London,  some  months  after  my  lady's  bereavement,  to 
travel  with  her  on  the  continent.  My  lady  had  travelled  in 
company  widi  her  aunt,  the  Lady  Helena  I'owyss,  and  her 
cousin,  a  "  Mrs.  Victor."  They  had  spent  the  best  part  of 
two  years  wandering  leisurely  through  every  country  in 
Europe,  and  now  my  lady  was  finishing  her  tour  of  the 
world  by  coming  to  America— why,  Detts  did  not  know. 
Not  many  ladies  of  rank  came  to  America  alone,  IJelts 
thought,  but  she  had  heard  my  lady  was  American  by  birth. 
Everywhere  my  lady  went  she  had  been  greatly  admired — 
gentlemen  always  raved  about  her,  but  she  seemed  as  cold 
as  marble,  very  high  and  haughty,  utterly  indifferent  to 
them  all.  She  did  not  go  into  society — she  had  been  aw- 
fully fond  of  her  late  husband,  and  quite  broken-hearted  at 
losing  him  so  soon.  That  was  Miss  l>etts'  story,  and  like 
Sam  Weller's  immortal  valentine,  was  just  enough  to  make 
them  wish  there  was  more. 

For  the  man  servant  and  avant  courier  of  my  lady,  he 
was  a  genteel,  dignified,  taciturn  gentleman,  like  an  elderly 
duke  in  difficulties,  with  whom  it  was  impossible  to  lake 
liberties  or  ask  questions— a  sort  of  human  oyster:  who  kept 
himself  and  his  knowledge  hermetically  sealed  up.  He  told 
nothing,  and  they  had  to  be  contented  with  Belts'  version. 

So  Lady  Catheron  became  the  lady  of  interest  on  board. 
Everybody  saw  her  on  deck,  her  railway  rug  spread  in  ihe 
sunshine,  her  low  wicker-work  chair  ])laced  upon  it,  a  large 
umbrella  unfurled  over  her  head,  reading  or  gazing  over  the 
sea  toward  the  land  they  were  neariug.  She  made  iio  ac- 
quaintances, she  was  perfectly  civil  to  everybody  v  ho  sp<'!ce 
to  her,  friendly  to  a  degree  with  the  children,  and  I'er  s'P'le 
was  bright  and  sweet  as  the  sunshine  itself  Her  riMi-euce 
could  hardly  be  sot  down  to  jjride.  Before  the  voyag,-  was 
over  she  was  many  times  forward  among  the  steerage  pas- 
sengers, leaving  largesses  behind  her,  and  always  followed  by 
thanks  and  blessings  when  she  came  away.  Not  pride, 
surely — the  great  dark  fathomless  eyes  were  wondrously 
sweet  and  soft;  'he  lijis,  that  might  once  have  been  haughty 
and  hard,  tender  md  gentle  now,  and  yet  llicre  was  a  vatfiie, 
intangible  sonietl.iiig  about  her,  that  held  all  at  arm's  length, 


Tiro   YEARS  AFTER. 


375 


that  let  no  one  come  one  inch  nearer  than  it  was  her  will 
they  should  come.  Lady  Catheron  had  hueii  their  interest 
from  the  first — she  was  their  mystety  to  llie  end. 

Yes,  it  was  Edith — lulilh  going  home — home  !  well 
hardly  that,  perhaps ;  she  was  going  to  see  her  father,  at  his 
mgent  request.  He  had  returned  once  more  to  Sandy- 
pomt,  he  had  been  ailing  lately,  and  he  yearned  to  see  his 
darling.  His  letter  reached  her  in  Paris,  and  Edith  crossed 
over  at  once,  and  came. 

Was  there  in  her  heart  any  hope  of  seeing,  as  well,  other 
friends?  Hardly — and  yet,  as  America  drew  near  and 
nearer,  her  heart  beat  with  a  hope  and  a  restlessness  she 
could  no  more  explain  than  I  can.  In  Naples,  six  months 
ai^o,  she  had  met  a  parly  of  Americans,  and  among  them 
Mrs.  Featherbrain,  of  light-headed  memory.  Mrs.  Feather- 
brain had  recognized  an  old  acquaintance  in  Lady  Catheron, 
and  hailed  her  with  effusion. 

For  Edith,  she  shrank  away  with  the  old  feeling  of  dislike 
and  repulsion,  and  yet  she  listened  to  her  chatter,  too. 

"  How  sad  it  was,"  said  gay  Mrs.  Fealiierbrain,  "  about 
the  poor,  dear  Stuarts.  That  delightful  Charley,  too  !  ah  ! 
it  was  very  sad.  Did  Lady  Catheron  coriespond  with  ihem  ? 
But  of  course  she  did,  being  a  relative  and  everything." 

"  No,"  Edith'  answered,  her  |)ale  face  a  shade  paler  than 
usual;  "she  had  entirely  lost  siglit  of  them  lately.  Siie 
would  be  very  glad  to  hear  of  them,  though.  Did  Mrs. 
Featherbrain  know —  " 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  Mr.s.  Featherbrain  answered  ;  "  I  have 
lost  sight  of  them  too — every  one  has.  When  people  be- 
come poor  and  drop  out  of  the  world,  as  it  were,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  follow  tiiem  up.  She  had  heard,  just  before  their 
l)arty  started,  that  Trixy  was  about  to  be  married,  and  that 
Charley— poor  Charley  !  was  going  to  California  to  seek 
iiis  fortune.  But  she  knew  nothing  i)ositively,  only  that 
they  were  certainly  not  to  be  seen  in  New  York — that  the 
places  and  ])eople  who  had  known  them  once,  knew  them 
no  more."     That  was  all. 

It  could  not  be,  then,  that  the  hope  of  meeting  them  was 
in  Edith's  mind,  and  yet,  her  whole  soul  yearned  to  meet 
them — to  ask  their  f(jrgivene:--s,  if  no  more.  To  clasp  Trisy's 
hand  once  again, — honest,  loving,  impulsive,  warui-iiearied 


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376 


Tff^O   YEARS  AFTER. 


Trixy, — to  feel  Iit  arms  about  her  as  of  old,  it  seemed  to 
Edith  Catheron,  she  could  have  given  half  her  life.  Of  any 
other,  she  would  not  let  herself  think.  He  had  passed  out 
of  her  life  forever  and  ever — nothing  could  alter  that. 

"Everywhere  she  went,  she  was  admired,"  her  servants 
had  said,  "  but  to  all  she  was  cold  as  marble."  Yes,  and  it 
would  always  be  so  while  life  remained.  There  had  been 
but  one  man  in  all  the  world  for  her  from  the  first — she  had 
given  him  up  of  her  own  free  will ;  she  must  abide  by  her  de- 
cision ;  but  there  never  would  be  any  other.  One  loveless 
marriage  she  had  made ;  she  never  would  make  another. 
Chat  ley  Stuart  might — would,  beyond  doubt — forget  her  and 
marry,  but  she  would  go  to  her  grave,  her  whole  heart  his. 

They  reached  New  York  ;  and  there  were  many  kindly 
partings  and  cordial  farewells.  Lady  Catheron  and  her  two 
servants  drove  away  to  an  up-town  hotel,  where  rooms  had 
been  engaged,  and  all  the  pp.pcrs  duly  chronicled  the  distin- 
guished arrival.  One  day  to  rest — then  down  to  Sandy- 
point,  leaving  gossiping  Belts  and  the  silent  elderly  gentle, 
man  behind  her.  And  in  the  twilight  of  an  August  day  slio 
entered  Sandypoint,  and  walked  slowly  through  the  little 
town,  home.  Only  three  years  since  she  had  left,  a  happy, 
hopeful  girl  of  eighteen — returning  now  a  saddened,  lom-ly 
woman  of  twenty-one.  How  sturngely  altered  the  old  land- 
marks, and  yet  how  faniiliar.  Here  were  the  stores  to 
which  she  used  to  walk,  sulky  and  discontented,  through  (he 
rain,  to  do  the  family  marketing.  Here  spread  the  wide  sea, 
smiling  and  placid,  whereon  she  and  Charley  used  to  sail. 
Yonder  lay  the  marsh  where,  that  winter  night,  she  had 
saved  his  life.  Would  it  have  been  as  well,  she  thought  with 
weary  wonder,  if  they  had  both  died  that  night  ?  Here  was 
the  nook  where  he  had  come  upon  her  that  wet,  dark  morn- 
ing with  his  mother's  letter,  when  her  life  seemed  to  begin — 
here  the  gale  where  they  had  stood  when  he  gave  her  his 
warning  :  ••  Whatever  that  future  brinj's,  Edith,  don't  blame 
me."  No,  she  blamed  nobody  but  herself;  the  happiness  of 
her  life  had  Iain  within  her  grasp,  and  she  had  stretched  forth 
her  hand  and  pushed  it  away.  There  was  the  open  window 
where  he  used  to  sit,  in  the  days  of  liis  convalesence,  and 
amuse  himself  selling  her  intlammable  temi)er  alight.  It 
was  all  associated  with  him.     Then  the  house  door  opens,  a 


TH^O   YEARS  AFTER. 


Z77 


tall,  elderly  man  comes  out,  there  is  a  great  cry,  father  and 
daughter  meet,  and  for  an  hour  or  so,  she  can  forget  even 
Charley. 

She  remains  a  week — how  oddly  familiar  and  yet  strange 
it  all  seems.  The  children  noisier  and  nider  than  ever,  her 
ilither  grown  grayer  and  more  wrinkled,  her  stepmother,  shrill 
of  tongue  and  acid  of  temper  as  of  yore,  but  fawningly  obse- 
quious to  her. 

The  people  who  used  to  know  her,  and  who  flock  to  see 
her,  the  young  men  who  used  to  be  in  love  with  her,  and 
who  stare  at  her  speechlessly  and  afar  off  now.  It  amuses 
her  for  a  while,  then  she  tires  of  it,  she  tires  of  everything  of 
late,  her  old  fever  of  restlessness  comes  back.  This  dull 
Sandypoint,  with  its  inquisitive  gapers  and  questioners,  is 
not  to  be  endured,  even  for  her  father's  sake.  She  will  re- 
turn to  New  York. 

In  the  bustling  life  there — the  restless,  ceaseless  flow  o 
humanity,  she  alone  finds  solitude  and  rest  now.  She  goes, 
but  she  leaves  behind  her  that  which  renders  keeping 
boarders  or  teaching  classics  forever  unnecessary  to  Freder- 
ick Darrell. 

She  goes  back.  What  her  p'.ans  are  for  the  future  she 
does  not  know.  She  has  no  jjlans,  she  cannot  tell  how  long 
she  may  remain,  or  where  she  will  eventually  take  up  her 
abode.  It  seems  to  her  she  will  be  a  sort  of  feminine  Wan- 
dering Jew  all  her  life.  That  life  lacks  something  that  ren- 
ders her  restless-^she  does  not  care  to  think  what.  She  may 
stay  all  winter — she  may  pack  up  and  start  any  day  for 
England. 

September  passes,  and  she  has  not  gone.  A  few  of  the 
acquaintances  she  made  when  here  before  with  the  Stuarts 
call  upon  her,  but  they  can  tell  her  nothing  of  them.  If  the 
Stuarts  were  all  dead  and  buried  they  could  not  more  com- 
l)letely  have  dropped  out  of  the  lives  of  their  summer-time 
friends.  It  must  be  true,  she  thinks,  what  Mrs.  Feather- 
brain told  her.  Tri.\y  is  married  and  settled  somewhere  with 
her  mother,  and  Charley  is  thousands  of  mll.o  away,  "seek- 
ing his  fortune." 

Then,  all  at  once,  she  resolves  to  go  back  to  England. 
Her  handsome  jointure  house  awaits  her,  I^ady  Helena  and 
Inez  long  for  her,  love  her — she  will  go  back  to  them — try 


378 


FORGIVEN  OR— FORGOTTEN  1 


to  be  at  peace  like  other  women,  try  to  live  her  life  out  and 
forget.  She  has  some  purchases  to  make  before  she  de- 
parts. She  goes  into  a  Broadway  store  one  day,  advances 
to  a  counter,  and  says  : 

*'  I  wish  to  see  some  black  Lyons  velvet."  Then  she 
pauses,  and  looks  at  some  black  kid  gloves  lying  before  her. 

"  What  is  the  number  ?  "  she  asks,  lifting  a  pair. 

The  young  man  behind  the  counter  makes  no  reply. 

She  raises  her  eyes  to  his  face  for  the  first  time,  and  sees 
— Charley  Stuart  1 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


FORGIVEN   OR— FORGOrrEN  ? 

HARLEY  STUART  !  The  original  of  the  pic- 
tured face  that  lies  over  her  heart  by  night  and 
day.  Charley  —  unchanged,  calm,  handsome, 
eminently  self-possessed  as  ever,  looking  at  her 
with  grave  gray  eyes. 

She  turns  giddy,  with  the  utter  shock  of  the  great  surprise 
—she  leans  for  a  second  heavily  against  the  counter,  and 
looks  at  him  with  eyes  that  cannot  believe  what  they  see. 

"  Charley  I " 

"Edith!" 

Yes,  it  is  his  voice,  his  smile,  and  he  stretches  his  hand 
across  the  counter  and  takes  hers.  Then  she  sinks  into  a 
seat,  and  for  a  moment  the  store,  and  the  faces,  swim  about 
her  in  a  hot  mist.  But  her  heart  has  given  one  great  glad 
leap,  and  she  knows  she  has  found  what  all  unconsciously 
she  has  been  longing  for,  seeking  for — Charley  ! 

He  is  the  first  to  recover  himself — if  indeed  he  has  lost 
himself  for  an  instant — ^and  speaks  : 

"This  is  a  staggerer,'"  he  says  ;  "and  yet  I  don't  know 
why  it  should  be  either,  since  everybody,  high  and  low,  wlio 
visits  New  York  drops  in  here  for  the  necessaries  of  life, 
sooner  or  later.  1  began  to  think,  however,  that  you  must 
have  gone  away  again." 

She  looks  at  him.     He  is  in  no  way  changed  that  she  can 


FORGIVEN  OR— FORGOTTEN f 


379 


see — the  very  same  Charley  of  three  years  before.     "  You 
knew  T.  was  here  !  "  she  asks. 

"  Certainly,  Lady  Catheron.  I  read  the  morning  papers, 
and  ahi'o.ys  look  out  for  distinguished  arrivals.  Like  the 
scent  of  the  roses,  my  aristocratic  tastes  cling  to  me  still.  I 
tlTonght  you  would  hardly  endure  a  month  of  Sandypoint — 
delightful,  no  doubt,  as  that  thriving  township  is.  1  don't 
need  to  ask  you  how  you  have  been — 1  can  sec  for  myself 
you  iiever  looked  better." 

lie  meets  her  steady,  reproachful  gaze  with  perfect  sang- 
froid. "  You  knew  I  was  here,  and  you  would  not  come  to 
see  me,"  those  dark  luminous  eyes  say.  His  i^erfectly  care- 
less, indifferent  manner  stings  her  to  the  quick. 

"  Trixy  knew  1  was  here  too,  of  course  !  "  she  says  in  a 
very  low  voice. 

"  No,"  Charley  answers  ;  •'  I  don't  think  she  did.  /didn't 
tell  her,  and  I  am  pretty  sure  if  she  had  found  it  out  for  her- 
self, her  family  circle  would  have  heard  of  it.  I  greatly 
doubt  even  whether  she  would  not  have  taken  the  libeity  of 
calling  upon  you." 

She  lifts  her  eyes  again,  with  a  reproach  her  lips  will  not 
speak. 

"I  have  deserved  it,"  that  dark,  sad  glance  says,  "but 
you  might  spare  me." 

"  We  were  all  very  sorry  to  hear  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron's 
death,"  Charley  resumes  gravely.  "  Hammond  told  us  ;  he 
writes  occasionally.  Heart  disease,  wasn't  it  ? — poor  fellow  ! 
I  hope  Lady  Helena  Powyss  is  quite  well  ?  " 

"  She  is  quite  well." 

Then  there  is  a  pause — her  heart  is  full,  and  he  stands 
here  so  utterly  unmoved,  talking  common-places,  and  look- 
ing as  though  even  the  memory  i.f  the  past  were  dead  and 
buried.  As  no  doubt  indeed  it  is.  She  handles  the  gloves 
she  still  holds  nervously,  for  once  in  her  life  at  a  loss. 

"  Your  mother  and  Trix  are  well  ?  "  she  says  after  that 
pause. 

"  Quite  well." 

She  looks  up  desperately  : 

"  Charley,"  she  exclaims  ;  "  mayn't  I  see  them  ?  I  have 
wanted  to  see  them  so  much — to — "  No,  her  voice  breaks, 
she  cannot  finish  the  sentence. 


380 


FORGIVEN  OR— FORGOTTEN  i 


"Certainly  you  can  see  them,"  Mr.  Stuart  answers 
promptly  ;  "  they  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure.  They  might 
not  feel  at  liberty  to  call  upon  you,  Lady  Catheron,  of  course, 
but  all  the  same  they  will  only  be  too  happy  if  Lady  Cathe- 
ron will  so  far  honor  them" 

He  says  this  in  the  old  lazy,  pleasant  voice,  but  it  is  qufte 
evfdent  he  does  not  mean  to  spare  her — his  half-sarcastic 
accent  makes  her  wince  as  though  in  actual  bodily  pain. 

"  I'll  give  you  the  address  if  you  like,"  he  goes  on  ;  "  it's 
not  the  most  aristocratic  neighborhood  in  the  world,  but  it's 
perfectly  quiet  and  safe."  He  scribbles  something  in  pen- 
cil. •'  llere  it  is — due  east  you  see.  Trix  won't  be  houje 
until  seven  ;  she's  at  work  in  a  fancy  shop  in  Sixth  avenue, 
you  know — no,  you  don't  know  of  course,  but  she  is,  and  I 
generally  call  round  for  her  at  closing-up  time.  But  you're 
safe  to  find  her  at  home  any  evening  you  may  name,  Lady 
Catheron,  after  seven  p.  m." 

She  takes  the  slip  of  paper  very  humbly — very  unlike  the 
Edith  he  used  to  know — her  lips  quivering,  as  he  can  see. 

"May  I  go  at  once?"  she  asks  in  that  humble  liitle 
voice ;  "  I  can't  wait.  I  want  to  see  your  mother,  and  I 
will  stay  until  Trixy  comes." 

"  My  mother  will  be  there,  and  charmed  to  see  you.  Of 
course  you  can  go  at  once— why  should  you  hesitate — it's 
very  kind  of  you  and  all  that.  1  would  escort  you  there  if  I 
could,  but  unhappily  I  m  on  duty.  You'll  have  no  trouble 
at  all  finding  it." 

He  is  perfectly  cordial — perfectly  indifferent.  He  looks 
at  her  as  he  might  look  at  Mrs.  Featherbrain  herself.  Yes, 
Edith,  it  is  all  over  for  you  ! 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  California,"  she  says  as  she  rises 
to  go  ;  "  and  that  Trixy  was  married." 

"  No,  I  have  never  left  New  York,  and  Trix  is  pining  in 
single  blessedness  still.  We  are  going  to  alter  all  that  shortly 
though — for  further  particulars,  apply  to  Trix.  Are  you  go- 
ing ?  good-by,  for  the  i^resent,  Lady  Catheron." 

She  is  out  in  the  bright  sunshine,  feeling  as  though  she 
were  in  a  dream. 

She  summons  a  hack,  and  is  driven  away  eastward  to  the 
address  he  has  given  her.  She  finds  it — a  tall  tenement 
house  in  a  close  street,  smelling  of  breweries,  and  she  as- 


FORGIVEN  OR— FORGOTTEN i 


381 


answers 


cends  a  long  flight  of  carpetless  stairs,  and  knocks  at  a  door 
on  the  upper  landing.  It  is  oi)cned,  and  the  well-remem- 
bered face  of  Aunt  Chatty  looks  out. 

•' Mrs.  Stuart !  " 

A  darkly,  beautiful  face  is  before  her,  two  black  gloved 
hands  are  outstretched,  two  brown  brilliant  eyes  shine  upon 
her  through  tears.     And  Mrs.  Stuart  recoils  with  a  gasp.' 

"  Oh,  dear  ni    !  "  she  says,  "  it  is  Edith  !  " 

Yes,  it  is  Edith,  vith  tears  large  and  thick  m  her  eyes,  who 
kisses  the  familiar  1  ice,  and  who  is  sitting  beside  her,  how, 
Mrs.  Stuart  never  knows  in  her  amaze  and  bewilderment,  in 
the  humble  little  front  room. 

How  changed  it  all  is  from  the  splendor  of  that  other 
house  in  Fifth  Avenue.  How  different  this  dingy  black  al- 
paca dress  and  rusty  widow's  cap  from  the  heavy  silks  and 
French  millinery  of  other  days.  But  Aunt  Chatty's  good, 
easy,  kindly  face  is  the  same. 

A  hundred  questions  are  asked  and  answered.  Edith  tells 
her  how  long  she  has  been  in  New  York,  of  how  only  an 
hour  ago  she  chanced  upon  Charley,  and  found  out  tlieir 
whereabouts.  And  now,  if  Aunt  Chatty  pleases,  she  is  going 
to  take  off  her  bonnet  and  wait  until  Beatrix  comes  home. 

"  Of  course  you  will  wait !  take  off  your  things  right  a^'ay. 
Dear  me  !  and  it  is  really  our  Edith  ;  won't  Trix  be  sur- 
prised and  glad.  It  isn't  much  of  a  place  this,"  says  poor 
Mrs.  Stuart,  glancing  about  her  ruefully ;  "  not  what  you're 
used  to,  my  dear,  but  such  as  it  is —  " 

An  impetuous  kiss  from  Edith  closes  her  lips. 

••  Ah  hush !  "  she  says ;  '■'•  you  are  in  it — and  glad  to  see 
me.     I  ask  no  more." 

"  And  you  are  a  widow  too,  dear  child,"  Mrs.  Stuart 
sighs,  touching  her  black  dress  compassionately  ;  "it  is  very 
hard — so  young,  and  only  one  short  year  his  wife.  Captain 
Hammond  told  us — he  writes  to  Trixy,  you  know.  Poor 
Sir  Victor  !  so  nice  as  he  was,  and  that  good  pleasant  Lacly 
Helena.  We  were  all  so  sorry.  And  you,  my  dear — how 
have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  well,"  Edith  answers,  but  she  will  not  talk  of 
herself.  Aunt  Chatty  must  tell  her  all  about  their  trouble. 
Aunt  Chatty  tells  plaintively,  only  too  glad  to  pour  her  sor- 
rows into  sympathizing  ears. 


382 


FORGIVEN  OR— FORGOTTEN t 


"It  was  very  hard  at  first — dreadfully  hard.  Poor  Mr. 
Stuart  died — it  was  too  nuich  for  him.  Everything  was  sold 
■ — everything — we  were  left  beggars.  Work  was  difficult  to 
get — then  1  fell  ill.  Charley  was  in  despair  almost — he  grew 
thin  and  hollow-eyed,  the  very  ghost  of  himself.  AN  our 
old  friends  seemed  to  drop  off,  and  only  Providence  sent 
Nellie  Seton  along,  we  might  all  have  died  or  gone  to  the 
almshouse." 

*'  Nellie  Seton  ?  "  Edith  inquired  ;  "  who  is  she  ?  what  did 
she  do?" 

*♦  She  was  a  school  friend  of  Trixy's,  in  reduced  circum- 
stances like  ourselves,  who  came  to  our  succor  like  an  ant'el 
m  human  form.  She  got  'I'rix  a  situation  m  a  fancy  store, 
she  nursed  me,  and  kept  me  alive  on  wine  and  jellies  when 
I  could  touch  nothing  else.  She  cheered  up  Charley  and 
kept  him  from  dying  of  despair.  To  Nellie  Seton,  under 
Heaven,  we  owe  it  that  we  are  alive  at  all." 

"She  is  a  young  lady — this  good  Miss  Seton?"  Edith 
asks,  with  a  sharp  contraction  of  the  heart. 

"Yes;  about  Trixy's  age,  and  wonderfully  clever.  She 
writes  poetry  and  gets  paid  for  it,  cMid  the  prettiest  stories 
for  the  magazines,  and  is  quite  rich.  She  is  one  of  the  fam- 
ily now  almost, — very  likely  she  will  be  home  presently  with 
Charley  and  Trix — they're  always  together.  And  now,  if 
you  will  excuse  me,  Edith,  I'll  go  and  get  tea." 

She  bustles  away,  and  Edith  sits  in  the  little  parlor  alone. 
And  she  feels,  with  a  heart  like  a  stone,  that  what  she  has 
lost  forever,  this  brave,  good  Nellie  Seton  has  won.  Well  I 
she  deserves  it ;  she  will  try  to  like  her,  Edith  thinks ;  but 
somehow  even  at  the  thought,  her  heart  revolts.  The  old 
feeling  for  Mrs.  Featherbrain,  for  Lady  Gwendoline,  tries  to 
come  back,  in  spite  of  her,  for  this  unseen  Miss  Seton.  She 
is  an  altered  woman — a  better  woman,  a  more  unselfish 
woman,  but  the  old  leaven  of  iniquity  is  not  dead  yet. 

"rhe  moments  drag  on — it  is  drawing  near  seven.  How 
will  Trixy  receive  her,  she  wonders.  Will  she  be  generous, 
and  forget  tiie  past,  or  will  she  make  her  feel  it,  as  her 
brother  has  done  ?  Seven.  Mrs.  Stuart  has  set  the  table. 
How  odd  it  seems  to  see  Aunt  Chatty  working.  The  tea  is 
sending  its  fragrance  through  the  little  rooms,  the  buttered 
toast  is  made,  the  cake  is  cut,  the  pink  ham  is  sliced,  every* 


SAYING   GOODS Y. 


383 


thing  looks  nice  and  inviting.  Suddenly  there  is  the  sound 
of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  of  girls'  gay  tones  and  sweet  laugh- 
ter— then  the  kitchen  door  Hies  open,  and  Trixy's  well-re- 
membered voice  is  animatedly  exclaiming  : 

"  Ma  !  is  tea  ready  f  1  am  famished  and  so  is  Nell.  What ! 
the  table  set  in  the  parlor  in  state.    Goodness !  " 

Edith  rises,  white  as  the  dainty  Marie  Stuart  widow's  cap 
she  wears — still  and  beautiful  she  stands.  She  sees  Trixy's 
tall  figure,  a  smaller,  slighter  young  lady  beside  her,  and 
Charley  standing  behind  both.  Half  a  -.linute  later  Trix 
sweeps  in,  sees  the  motionless  figure,  anu  recoils  with  a 
sliriek. 

"  Trix  ! "  Edith  advances  v/ith  the  word  that  is  almost  a 
sob.     And  Trixy's  face  grows  radiant. 

"It  is!  it  is\  it  IS  !" 

She  screams,  and  rushes  forward,  and  catches  Edith  in  a 
perfect  bear's  hug,  laughing,  crying,  and  kissing,  all  in  a 
breath. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


SAYING   GOOD-BY. 


e,  tries  to 


|0  coldness  about  the  welcome  here,  no  ungracious 
remembrances  of  the  past,  no  need  ever  to  doubt 
Trixy's  warm  heart,  and  generous,  forgiving,  impul- 
sive nature. 

All  Edith's  shortcomings  were  long  ago  forgotten  and  for- 
given— it  is  in  Edith's  way  to  inspire  ardent  love.  Tiixy 
loves  her  as  dearly,  as  warmly  as  she  had  ever  done — she 
hugs,  she  kisses,  she  exclaims  at  sight  of  her,  in  a  perfect 
rapture  of  joy  : 

"  O  darling  I "  she  cries,  "  ho7V  good  it  is  to  see  you 
again !  what  a  surprise  is  this  !  Charley,  where  are  you  ? 
look  here  !     Don't  you  know  Edith  ?  " 

"Most  undoubtedly  I  know  Edith,"  Charley  answers,  ad- 
vancing ;  "  old  age  may  have  impaired  my  faculties,  but  still 
1  recognize  a  familiar  face  when  I  see  it.    I  told  her  I  thought 


384 


SAYING   GOOD-BY. 


you  would  be  glad  to  see  her,  but  I  didn't  tell  her  you  in- 
tended to  eat  her  alive." 

"  You  told  her  !     Where  ?  when  ?  " 

"In  the  store — this  aficrnoon.  She  came  in  'promiscu- 
ous '  for  black  Lyon's  velvet,  wasn't  it.  Lady  Catheron  ?  You 
didn't  get  it,  by  the  way.  Permit  me  to  inform  you,  in  my 
professional  capacity,  that  we  have  a  very  chaste  and  ele- 
gant assortment  of  the  article  always  in  stock.  Trix,  where's 
your  manners?  Mere's  Nellie  hovering  aloof  in  the  back- 
ground, waiting  to  be  introduced.  Allow  ;;/<?  to  be  master  of 
the  ceremonies — Lady  Catheron,  Miss  Nellie  Seton." 

Both  young  ladies  bowed — both  looked  each  other  full 
in  the  face — genuine  admiration  in  Miss  Seton's  — keen, 
jealous  scrutiny  in  Lady  Catheron' s.  She  saw  a  girl  of  two 
or  three  and  twenty,  under-si/ed  and  rather  plump,  with  a 
face  which  in  poiiit  of  beauty  would  not  for  one  instant  com- 
pare with  her  own  or  Trixy's  either.  But  it  was  such  a 
thoroughly  good  face.  And  the  blue,  beaming  eyes,  tlie 
soft-cut  smiling  mouth,  gentle,  and  strong,  and  sweet,  were 
surely  made  to  win.  all  hearts  at  sight.  Not  a  beauty — 
something  infuiitely  better,  and  as  a  rival,  something  in- 
finitely more  dangerous. 

"  Lady  Catheron's  name  is  familiar  to  me  as  a  household 
word,"  Miss  Seton  said,  with  a  frank  little  laugh,  that  sub- 
dued Edith  at  once.  •'  Trix  wakes  with  your  name  on  her 
lips,  I  believe,  and  goes  to  sleep  murmuring  it  at  night. 
Lady  Catheron  doesn't  know  how  madly  jealous  1  have  been 
of  her  before  now." 

Edith  turns  once  more  to  Trix — faithful,  friendly,  loyal 
Trix — and  stretches  forth  both  hands,  with  a  swift,  graceful 
impulse,  tears  standing,  large  and  bright,  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  own  dear  Trix  !  "  is  what  she  says. 

"And  now  I'll  run  away,"  Miss  Seton  exclaims  brightly; 
"  auntie  will  expect  me,  and  1  know  Trix  has  ten  thousand 
things  to  tell  and  to  hear.  No,Trixy,  not  a  word.  Charley, 
what  are  you  doing  vith  your  hat?  put  it  down  instantly — I 
don't  want  you.     I  would  very  much  rather  go  home  alone." 

"Yes,  its  so  likely  I'll  let  you.  There's  no  earthly  rea- 
son why  you  shouldn't  stay;  but  if,  with  your  usual  obstinacy 
and  strong-mindedness,  you  insist  u|)on  going — " 

"I  do  insist  upon  going,  and  without  an  escort.     You 


SAYING   GOOD-BY. 


385 


know  you  are  rather  a  nuisance — in  the  way  than  otherwise 
— oh,  I  mean  it.  I  get  home  twice  as  fast  when  I  go  by 
myself." 

He  looks  at  her — Edith  turns  sick — sick,  as  she  sees  tlie 
look.  He  says  something  in  too  low  a  tone  for  tlie  rest  to 
hear.  Miss  Seton  laughs,  but  her  color  rises  and  she  objects 
no  more.  Edith  sees  it  all.  A  gray-kidded  hand  is  extended 
to  her. 

"  Good-night,  Lady  Catheron,"  Miss  Seton's  bright,  pleas- 
ant voice  says,  and  Lady  Callieron  takes  it,  feeling  in  her 
heart  that  for  once  she  cannot  dislike  a  rival.  This  girl  who 
will  be  Charley's  wife — O  blissful  fate  ! — is  worthy  of  him. 
They  go  out  together,  laughing  as  they  go. 

'*  Isn't  she  just  the  dearest  darling  !  "  cries  Trix  in  her 
gushing  way ;  "  and  O  Edith  !  whatever  would  have  be- 
come of  us  all  without  her,  I  shudder  to  think.  In  the  dark 
days  of  our  life,  when  friends  were  few  and  far  between,  she 
was  our  friend — our  savior.  She  nursed  mamma  from  the 
very  jaws  of  death,  she  got  me  my  place  in  the  fancy-store, 
and  I  believe — she  won't  own  it — but  I  do  believe  she 
saved  Charley's  life." 

"  Saved  his  life  ?  "  Edith  falters. 

"  It  was  such  an  awful  time,"  Trix  says  in  sombre  tones. 


•'  we  were 

fiiends 
we   were 
da\'s, 


starving,  Edith,  literally  starving, 
us 


All 


our  old 

had  forsaken  us ;  work  we  could  not  get,  '  to  beg 

ashamed.'     If  you   had   seen   Charley  in    those 

gaunt,  hollow-eyed,  haggard,  wretched.       He   looks 


and  feels  all  right  now,"  goes  on  Trix,  brightening  up  a 
bit,  "  but  then  I  it  used  to  break  my  heart  to  look  at  him. 
He  tried  for  work,  from  morning  until  night,  and  day 
after  day  he  came  home,  footsore,  weary,  despairing.  He 
could  not  leave  mother  and  me,  and  go  elsewhere — she  was 
sick,  father  was  dead — poor  pa ! — and  I  was  just  crazy,  or  near 
it.  And  one  dark,  dreadful  night  he  went  out,  and  down  to 
the  river,  and — Nellie  followed,  and  found  him  there.  Ah  ! 
Edith,  he  wasn't  so  much  to  blame  ;  I  suppose  he  was  mad 
that  night.  She  came  up  to  him,  and  put  her  arms  around 
him,  as  he  stood  in  the  darkness  and  the  rain,  and — I  don't 
know  what  she  said  or  did — but  she  brought  him  back  to 
us.  And  Providence  sent  him  work  next  day- — the  situa- 
tion in  the  store  he  has  now.  I  don't  know  about  his  merits 
17 


386 


MAYING   GOOD-BY. 


as  a  salesman,"  says  Trix,  laughing,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears 
"  but  he  is  immeiiscly  popular  with  the  ladies.  Nellie  says 
it  isn't  his  eloqueuee — where  the  other  clerks  expatiate  Ihi- 
ently  on  the  merits  of  ribbons,  and  gloves,  and  laces,  shades 
and  textures,  Charley  stands  silent  and  lets  them  tak,  and 
smiles  and  looks  handsome.  I  suppose  it  answers,  for  they 
seem  to  like  him.  So  now  you  see  we  get  on  splendidly, 
and  I've  almost  f  jotten  that  we  were  ever  rich,  and  wore 
purple  and  line  iipen,  and  feasted  sumptuously  every  day." 

"  You  are  happy  ?  '  Edith  asks,  with  wonder  and  envy  in 
he  eyes. 

'•Perfectly  happy,"  Trijf  replies  cheerily;  "I  haven't  a 
wish  unsatisfied— oh  well  !  now  that  you've  come.  1  did 
want  you,  Dithy  ;  it  seems  such  ages  and  ages  since  we  met, 
and  I  was  troubled  about  you.  I  heard  of  /«'/«,  you  know, 
poor  fellow." 

She  touches  timidly  Edith's  widow's  weeds.  There  is  no 
answer — Edith's  tears  are  faUing.  She  is  contrasting  her  own 
cowardice  with  Trixy's  courage  ;  her  own  hardness  with 
Trixy's  generosity. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  she  asks  at  length. 

"  Captain  Hammond.  You  remember  Angus  Hammond, 
I  suppose  ?  "  Trix  says,  blushing  and  hesitating ;  "  he  wrote 
us  about  it,  and  " — a  pause. 

"  Go  on  ;  what  else  did  he  write  ?  " 

•'  That  there  was  trouble  of  some  sort,  a  separation,  I  think 
— that  you  had  i)arted  on  your  very  wedding-day.  Of  course 
we  couldn't  believe  that." 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  was  the  low  reply. 

Trixy's  eyes  opened. 

"  True  !     O  Dithy  !     On  your  wedding-day  !  " 

"  On  our  wedding-day,"  Edith  answered  steadily ;  "  to  meet 
no  more  until  we  met  at  his  death-beil.  Some  day,  Trix, 
dear,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was — not  now.  Two  years  have 
passed,  but  even  yet  I  don't  care  to  think  of  it.  Only  this 
— he  was  not  to  blame — he  was  the  bravest,  the  noblest,  the 
best  of  men,  ten  thousand  times  too  good  for  me.  1  was  a 
mercenary,  ambitious  wretch,  and  I  received  my  just  reward. 
We  parted  at  the  last  friends,  thank  God  !  but  1  can  never 
forgive  myself — never  ! " 

There  was  p  pause — an  uncomfortable  one  for  Trix. 


SAVmC   GOOD-BY. 


387 


wandering 


"  How  long  since  you  rune  to  New  York  ? "  she  asked 
at  Icngtii. 

Edith  told  her — told  her  how  she  had  been 
over  the  world  since  her  husband's  death — how  slie  had  <u;ii'- 
to  America  to  see  her  father — how  she  had  tried  to  tiiid  theuj 
here  in  New  York — iiow  signally  she  had  failed — and  1  nw 
to-day,  by  purest  accident,  she  had  come  upon  Charley  in  the 
J  {roadway  store. 

"  How  astoni'^hcd  he  must  have  been,"  his  sister  said  ; 
"I  think  I  s-j  him,  lif'ing  his  eyebrows  to  the  middle  of 
his  forehead.     Did  he  take  you  for  a  ghost  ?  " 

"  liy  no  means,  and  he  was  not  in  the  least  surprised. 
He  knew  I  was  here,  from  the  first." 

"  Edith ! " 

"  He  told  me  so.  He  saw  my  arrival  in  the  paper  when 
I  first  landed." 

'•  And  he  never  told  me,  and  he  never  went  to  see  you  I 
The  wretch  I  "  cried  Trix. 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  is  to  blame,"  Edith  responded 
quietly.  "  I  deserved  no  better  ;  and  ah  !  Trixy,  not  many 
in  this  world  are  as  generous  as  _;'^«.  So  you  are  perfectly 
happy,  darling  ?  I  wonder  if  Captain  Hammond,  now,  has 
anything  to  do  with  it  ?" 

*'  Well,  yes,"  Trix  admits  blushingly  again  ;  **  I  may  as  well 
tell  you.     We  are  to  be  married  at  Christmas." 

"Trix!     Married!" 

"  Married  at  last.  We  were  engaged  before  I  left  Eng- 
land, three  years  ago.  He  wanted  to  marry  me  then, 
foolish  fellow  !  "  says  Trix  with  shining  eyes,  "  but  of  course, 
we  none  of  us  would  listen  to  so  j)reposterous  a  thing.  He 
had  only  his  pay  and  his  debts,  and  his  expectations  from  a 
fairy  godmother  or  grandniotlier,  who  voouldtit  die.  lUit 
she  died  last  mail — I  mean  last  mail  brought  a  black  bor- 
dered letter,  saying  she  was  gone  to  glory,  and  had  left 
Angus  everything.  He  is  going  to  sell  out  of  the  army,  and 
will  be  here  by  Christinas,  and — and  the  W'.'dding  is  to  take 
l)lace  the  very  week  he  arrives.  And,  oh  !  Edith,  he's  just 
the  dearest  fellow,  the  best  fellow,  and  I'm  the  happiest  girl 
in  all  New  York  !  " 

Edith  says  nothing.     She  takes  Trix,  who  is  crying,  sud 


denly  in  her  arms,  and  kisses  her. 


Angus 


Hammond  has 


388 


SAYING   GOODjSY. 


been  faithful  in  the  hour  when  she  deserted  them — that  is 
her  thought.  Her  self-reproach  never  ceases — never  for 
one  hour. 

"  We  go  to  Scotland  of  course,"  said  Trix,  wiping  her 
eyes  ;  "and  ma — also,  of  course,  stays  with  Charley.  Nellie 
will  be  here  to  fill  my  place — don't  you  think  she  will  make 
a  charming  sister  ?  " 

She  laughs  as  she  asks  the  question — it  is  the  one  little 
revenge  she  takes.     Before  Edith  can  reply  she  runs  on  : 

"  Nellie's  rich — rich,  I  mean,  as  compared  with  us,  and 
she  has  made  it  all  herself.  She's  awfully  clever,  and  writes 
for  magazines,  and  papers,  and  things,  and  earns  oceans  of 
money.  Oceans"  says  Trix,  opening  her  eyes  to  the  size  of 
saucers ;  "  and  I  don't  know  really  which  of  us  ma  likes  best, 
Nellie  or  me.  That's  my  one  comfort  in  going.  Here 
comes  Charley  now — let's  have  tea  at  once.  J.  forgot  all 
about  it,  but  nobody  has  the  faintest  idea  of  the  pangs  of 
hunger  I  am  enduring." 

Charley  sauntered  in,  looking  fresh  and  handsome,  from 
the  night  air. 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  Trix  lit  the  lamp  and  bustled 
about  helping  to  get  supper.  "You  told  Nellie  ?"  she  asked 
her  brother  in  a  low  tone,  but  Edith  caught  the  words. 

"  Yes,"  Charley  answered  gravely,  "  I  told  her." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  Everything  that  was  like  Nellie — everything  that  was 
bright,  and  brave,  and  good.  She  will  be  here  in  the  morn- 
ing to  say  good-by.  Now,  Mrs.  Stuart,  if  you  have  any 
compassion  on  a  famished  only  son,  hurry  up,  and  let's  have 
supper." 

They  sat  down  around  the  little  table  where  the  lamp 
shone  brightly — Edith  feeling  cold  and  strange  and  out  of 
place.  Trixy  and  A  nt  Chatty  might,  and  did,  forgive  the 
past,  but  she  herself  could  not,  and  between  her  and  Char- 
ley lay  a  gulf,  to  be  spanned  over  on  earth  no  more.  And 
yet — how  beautiful  and  stately  she  looked  in  her  little  white 
widow's  cap,  her  sombre  dress,  and  the  frill  of  sheer  white 
crape  at  her  throat. 

"Edith!"  Trix  said  involuntarily,  "how  handsome  you 
have  grown  !  You  were  always  pretty,  but  now — I  don't 
mean   to  flatter — but  you  are  splendid  I     It  can't  be  that 


SAYING  GOOD-BY. 


389 


black  becomes  you,  and  yet — Charley,  don't  you  see  it? 
Lasn't  Edith  grown  lovely  ?" 

"  Trix !  "  Edith  cried,  and  over  her  pale  cheeks  there  rose 
a  flush,  and  into  her  dark,  brilliant  eyes  there  came  a  light, 
that  made  her  for  the  moment  all  Trixy  said. 

Charley  looked  at  her  across  the  table — the  cool,  clear, 
gray  eyes,  perfectly  undazzlcd. 

"  I  used  to  think  it  impossible  for  Edith  to  improve ;  I 
find  out  my  mistake  to-day,  as  I  find  out  many  others.  As 
it  is  not  permitted  one  to  say  what  one  thinks  on  these 
subjects,  one  had  better  say  nothing  at  all." 

The  flush  thai  aas  risen  to  Edith's  cheeks  remains  there, 
and  deepens.  After  tea,  at  Trix/s  urgent  request,  she  sits 
down  at  the  little  hired  piano,  and  sings  some  of  the  old 


songs. 


"  Your  very  voice  has  improved,"  Trix  says  admiringly. 
'■  Edith,  sing  Charley  Ms  my  darling,  for  Charley.  It  used 
to  be  a  favorite  of  his." 

She  gives  him  a  malicious  sidelong  glance.  Charley, 
lying  back  in  his  mother's  comfortable,  cushioned  rocking- 
chair,  takes  it  calmly. 

"  It  used  to  be,  but  it  has  ceased  to  be,"  he  answers 
coolly.  "  Trix,  go  out  like  a  good  child,  and  get  me  the 
evening  paper.  Among  my  other  staid,  middle-aged  habits. 
Lady  Catheron,  is  that  of  reading  the  Post  every  evening  re- 
ligiously, after  tea." 

Never  Edith  any  more — always  Lady  Cathero»^ — never 
the  girl  he  loved  three  years  ago — whom  he  had  iaid  he 
would  love  all  his  life,  but  the  richly  dowered  widow  of  Sir 
Victor  Catheron.  He  will  not  generously  forget,  even  for 
an  instant,  that  he  is  an  impecunious  dry  goods  clerk,  she  a 
lady  of  rank  a -id  riches. 

She  rises  to  go — it  is  growing  almost  more  than  she  can 
bear.  Trix  preises  her  to  stay  longer,  but  in  vain ;  he  never 
utters  a  word. 

"  Shall  Charley  call  a  carriage,  or  will  you  prefer  to  walk  ?  " 
Trix  asks  doubtfiilly. 

"  She  will  walk,"  says  Charley,  suddenly  looking  up  and 
interfering  ;  "  the  night  is  fine,  and  I  will  see  her  liome." 

F;>r  one  instant,  at  the  tone  of  his  voice,  at  the  look  of 
his  eyes,  her  heart  bounds. 


390 


SAYING   GOOD-BY. 


Her  bonnet  and  mantle  are  brought — she  kisses  Trix  and 
Aunt  Chatty  good-night — they  have  promised  to  dine  with 
her  to-morrow — and  goes  forth  into  the  soft  October  night 
with  Charley. 

He  draws  her  hand  within  his  arm — the  night  is  star-lit, 
lovely.  The  old  time  comes  back,  the  old  feeling  of  rest 
and  content,  the  old  comfoi  table  feeling  that  it  is  Charley's 
arm  ui)on  which  she  leans,  and  that  she  asks  no  more  of 
fate.  To-morrow  he  may  be  Nellie  Seton's — ^just  now,  he 
belongs  to  her. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  exclaims,  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  "  how  fa- 
miliar it  all  is !  these  gas-lit  New  York  streets,  the  home- 
like look  of  the  men  and  women,  and — you.  It  seems  as 
though  I  had  left  Sandypoint  only  yesterday,  and  you  were 
showing  me  again  the  wonders  of  New  York  for  the  first 
lime." 

He  looks  down  at  the  dusk,  warm,  lovely  face,  so  near  his 
own. 

•'  Sandypoint,"  he  repeats  ;  "  Edith,  do  you  recall  what  I 
said  to  you  there  ?  Have  you  ever  wished  once,  in  those 
three  years  that  are  gone,  that  I  had  never  come  to  Sandy- 
point to  take  you  away  ?  " 

**  I  have  never  wished  it,"  she  answers  truly  ;  "  never 
once.  I  have  never  blamed  you,  never  blamed  anyone  but 
myself — how  could  I  ?  The  evil  of  my  life  I  wrought  with 
my  own  hand,  and — if  it  were  all  to  come  over  again — I 
would  still  go  !     I  have  suffered,  but  at  least — I  have  lived." 

*'  I  am  glad  to  hear  diat,"  he  says  after  a  little  i)ause  ;  "  it 
has  troubled  me  again  and  again.  You  see,  Hammond  wrote 
us  all  he  ever  knew  of  you,  and  tliough  it  was  rather  incom- 
prehensible in  part,  it  was  clear  enough  your  life  was  not  en- 
tirely a  bed  of  roses.  All  that,  I  hope,  is  over  and  done  with 
— there  can  be  no  reason  why  all  the  rest  of  your  life  should 
not  be  entirely  hai)py.  This  is  j^artly  why  I  wished  to  walk 
home  with  you  tonight,  that  I  might  know  from  your  own 
lips  whether  you  held  me  blameless  or  not.  And  partly, 
also — "  a  second  brief  pause  ; — "  to  bid  you  good-by." 

"  Good-by  I  "     In  the  starlight  she  turns  deathly  white. 

"  Yes,"  he  responded  cheerily  ;  "  good-by  ;  and  as  our 
lives  lie  so  widely  apart  in  all  probability,  this  time  forever. 
I  shall  certainly  return  here  at  Christmas,  but  you  may  have 


SAYING   GOODS Y. 


gone  before  that.  To-morrow  morning  I  start  for  St.  Louis, 
where  a  branch  of  our  house  is  established,  and  where  I  an 
permanently  to  remain.  It  is  an  excellent  opening  for  me 
— my  salary  has  been  largely  advanced,  and  1  am  hapjiy  to 
say  the  firm  think  me  competent  and  trustworthy.  I  return, 
as  I  said,  at  Christmas  ;  after  that  it  becomes  my  permanent 
home.  You  know,  of  course,"  he  says  with  a  laugh,  '♦  why  I 
return — Trix  has  told  you  ?  " 

So  compltjtely  has  she  forgotten  Trix,  so  wholly  have  her 
thoughts  been  of  him,  that  she  absolutely  does  not  remem- 
ber to  what  he  alludes. 

"  Trix  has  told  nie  nothing,"  she  manages  to  answer,  and 
she  wonders  at  herself  to  find  how  steady  is  her  own  voice. 

"  No  ?  "  Charley  says,  elevating  his  eyebrows  ;  "  and 
they  say  the  age  of  wonders  is  over !  Trix  in  the  new  roll 
of  keejiing  her  own  secrets  !  Well,  I  very  naturally  return 
for  the  wedding — our  wedding.  It's  extraordinary  that  Trix 
hasn't  told  you,  but  she  will.  Then — my  Western  home 
will  be  ready  by  that  time,  and  we  go  back  immediately. 
Rfy  mother  goes  with  me,  I  need  hardly  say." 

Stili  so  absolutely  wrapped  up  in  her  thoughts  of  him,  so 
utterly  forgetful  of  Trix,  that  she  does  not  understand.  Our 
wedding — he  Jiieans  his  own  and  Nellie  Seton's  of  course. 
His  Western  home,  the  home  where  she  will  reign  as  his 
wife.  In  the  days  that  have  gone,  Edith  thinks  she  has  suf- 
fered— she  feels  to-night  that  she  has  never  suffered  until 
now !  She  deserves  it,  but  if  he  had  only  spared  her, — 
only  left  it  for  some  one  else  to  tell.  It  is  a  minute  before 
she  can  reply — then,  despite  every  effort,  her  voice  is  husky  : 

"  I  wish  you  joy,  Charley — with  all  my  heart." 

She  cannot  say  one  word  more.  Something  in  the  words, 
in  her  manner  of  saying  them,  makes  him  look  at  her  in 
surprise. 

"  Wei',  yes,"  he  answers  coolly ;  "  a  wedding  in  a  family 
is,  I  believe,  a  general  subject  of  congratulation.  And  I 
must  say  she  has  shown  herself  a  trump — the  bravest,  best 
girl  al've.  And  you" — they  are  drawing  near  a  hotel — 
"  may  I  venture  to  ask  your  plans,  Lady  Catheron  ?  how 
long  do  you  think  of  remaining  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  I  shall  leave  at  once — at  once,"  she  replied  in  the  same 
husky  tone.     To  stay  and  meet  Nellie  Scton  after  to-night 


392 


SAYING   GOOD-BY. 


is  more  than  she  is  able  to  do.  They  are  close  to  the  hotel 
now.  Involuntarily — unconsciously,  she  clings  to  his  arm, 
as  the  drowning  may  cling  to  a  straw.  She  feels  in  a  dull, 
agonized  sort  of  way  that  in  five  minutes  the  waters  will 
have  closed  over  her  head,  and  the  story  of  her  life  have 
come  to  an  end. 

"  Here  we  are,"  his  frank,  cheery  voice  says — his  voice, 
that  has  yet  a  deeper,  more  earnest  tone  than  of  old.  "  You 
don't  know,  Edith,  how  glad  I  am  of  this  meeting — how  glad 
to  hear  you  never  in  any  way  blamed  me." 

'*  I  blame  you  !  oh,  Charley  I "  she  says  with  a  passionate 
little  cry, 

"  I  rejoice  to  hear,  that  with  all  its  drawbacks,  you  don't 
regret  the  past.  I  rejoice  in  the  knowledge  that  you  are 
rich  and  happy,  and  that  a  long,  bright  life  lies  before  you. 
Edith,"  he  takes  both  her  hands  in  his  strong,  cordial  clasp, 
'•  if  we  never  meet  again,  God  bless  you,  and  good-by," 

She  lifts  her  eyes  to  his,  full  of  dumb,  speechless  agony. 
In  that  instant  he  knows  tlie  truth — knows  that  Edith  loves 
him — that  the  heart  he  would  once  have  laid  down  his  life 
almost  to  win,  is  his  wholly  at  last ! 

The  revelation  comes  upon  him  like  a  flash — like  a  blow. 
He  stands  holding  her  hands,  looking  at  her,  at  the  mute, 
infinite  misery  in  her  eyes.  Someone  jostles  them  in  pass- 
ing, and  turns  and  stares.  It  dawns  upon  him  that  they 
are  in  the  public  street,  and  making  a  scene. 

"  Good-by,"  he  says  hastily  once  more,  and  drops  the 
hands,  and  turns  and  goes. 

She  stands  like  a  statue  where  he  has  left  her — he  turns  a 
corner,  the  last  sound  of  his  footsteps  dies  away,  and  Edith 
feels  that  he  his  gone  out  of  her  life — out  of  the  whole 
world. 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


393 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE    SECOND    BRIDAL. 


IJISS  NELLIE  SETON  came  early  next  morning  to 
see  her  friend,  Mr.  Charley  Stuart,  oflF.  He  is 
looking  rather  pale  as  he  bids  them  good-by — the 
vision  of  Edith's  eyes  upturned  to  his,  full  of  mute, 
impassionate  appeal,  have  haunted  him  all  night  long.  They 
haunt  him  now,  long  after  the  last  good-by  had  been  said, 
and  the  train  is  sweeping  away  Westward.  Edith  loves  him 
at  last.  At  last  ?  there  has  never  been  a  time  when  he 
doubted  it,  but  now  he  knows  he  has  but  to  say  the  word, 
and  she  v/ill  lay  her  hand  in  his,  and  toil,  and  parting,  and 
separation  will  end  between  them  forever.  But  he  will 
never  say  that  word — what  Edith  Darrell  in  her  ambition 
once  refused,  all  Lady  Catheron's  wealth  and  beauty  can- 
not win.  He  feels  he  could  as  easily  leap  from  the  car  win- 
dow and  end  it  all,  as  ask  Sir  Victor  Catheron's  riclily  dow- 
ered widow  to  be  his  wife.  She  made  her  choice  three  years 
ago — she  must  abide  by  that  choice  her  life  long. 

"And  then,"  he  thinks  rather  doggedly,  "this  fancy  of 
mine  may  be  only  fancy.  The  leopard  cannot  change  his 
spots,  and  an  ambitous,  mercenary  woman  cannot  change 
her  nature.  And,  as  a  rule,  ladies  of  wealth  and  title  don't 
thro"'  themselves  away  on  impecunious  dry  goods  clerks. 
No  1  J.  made  an  egregious  ass  of  myself  once,  and  once  is 
quite  enough.  We  have  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  and  are 
not  going  back  at  this  late  day  to  the  old  ones.  With  her 
youtli,  her  fortune,  and  her  beauty,  Edith  can  return  to  Eng- 
land and  make  a  brilliant  second  marriage." 

And  then  Mr.  Stuart  sets  his  lips  behind  his  brown  mus- 
tache, and  unfolds  the  morning  paper,  smelling  damp  and 
nasty  of  printer's  ink,  and  inunerses  himself,  fathoms  deep, 
in  mercantile  news  and  the  doings  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 

He  reaches  St.  Louis  in  safety,  and  resumes  the  labor  of 
his  life.  He  has  no  time  to  think — no  time  to  be  sentimen- 
tal, if  he  wished  to  be,  which  he  doesn't. 

"  Love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart;''  sings  a  poet,  who 


594 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  His  heart  is  not  in  the 
least  broken,  nor  likely  to  be ;  there  is  no  time  in  iiis  busy, 
mercantile  life,  for  that  sort  of  thing,  I  repeat  He  goes  to 
work  with  a  will,  and  astonishes  even  himself  by  his  energy 
and  brisk  business  capacity.  If  he  thinks  of  Edith  at  all, 
amid  his  dry-as-dust  ledgers  and  blotters,  his-  buying  and 
selling,  it  is  that  she  is  probably  on  the  ocean  by  this  time 
— having  bidden  her  native  land,  like  Childe  Harold,  "  One 
long,  one  last,  good-night."  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  it 
all,  Trixy's  first  letter  arrives. 

It  is  all  Edith,  from  beginning  to  end.  Edith  has  not 
gone,  she  is  still  in  New  York,  but  her  passage  is  taken,  and 
she  will  leave  next  week.  "  And  Charley,"  says  Trix, 
"don't  be  angry  now,  but  do  you  know,  though  P2dith  Dar- 
rell  always  liked  you,  1  fancy  Lady  Catheron  likes  you  even 
better.  Not  that  she  ev^r  says  anything  ;  bless  you  !  she  is 
as  proud  as  ever  ;  but  we  women  can  tell.  And  last  night 
she  told  ma  and  me  the  story  of  her  past,  of  her  married 
life — or  rather  her  ////-married  life — of  her  separation  from 
Sir  Victor  on  their  wedding-day — think  of  it,  Charley  !  on 
their  wedding-day.  If  ever  anyone  in  this  world  was  to  be 
pitied,  it  was  he — poor  fellow  !  And  she  was  not  to  blame 
— neither  could  have  acted  other  than  they  did,  that  I  can 
see.  Poor  Edith  !  jioor  Sir  Victor !  I  will  tell  you  all  when 
we  meet.  She  leaves  next  Tuesday,  and  it  half  breaks  my 
heart  to  see  her  go.  Oh,  Charley  I  Charley  !  why  need  she 
go  at  all  ?  " 

He  reads  this  letter  as  he  smokes  his  cigar — very  gravely, 
very  thoughtfully,  wondering  a  great  deal,  but  not  in  the 
least  moved  from  his  steadfast  purpose.  Parted  on  their 
wedding-day  !  he  has  heard  that  before,  but  hardly  credited 
it.  It  is  true  then — odd  that ;  and  neither  to  be  blamed  — 
odder  still.  She  has  only  been  Sir  Victor's  wife  in  name, 
then,  after  all.  But  it  makes  no  diti'erence  to  him — noth- 
ing does — all  that  is  ]>ast  and  done — she  flung  him  off  once 
— he  will  never  go  back  now.  Their  paths  lie  apart — hers 
over  the  hills  of  life,  his  in  the  dingy  valleys — they  have  said 
good-by,  and  it  n.aans  forever. 

He  goes  back  to  his  ledgers  and  his  counting-room,  and 
four  more  days  pass.  On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day, 
as  he  leaves  the  store  for  the  night,  a  small  boy  from  the 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


395 


telegraph  office  waylays  him,  and  hands  him  one  of  the  well- 
known  buff  envelopes.  He  breaks  it  open  where  he  stands, 
and  read  this  : 

"New  York,  Oct.  28,  '7a 
"  Charley  :  Edith  is  lying  dangerously  ill — dying.     Come 
back  at  once.  "  Beatrix.'' 


He  reads,  and  the  tnith  does  not  come  to  him — he  reads 
it  again.  Edith  is  dying.  And  then  a  grayish  pallor  comes 
over  his  face,  from  brow  to  chin,  and  he  stands  for  a  mo- 
ment, staring  vacantly  at  the  paper  he  holds,  seeing  nothincj 
— hearing  nothing  but  these  words  :  "  Edith  is  dying."  lu 
that  moment  he  knows  that  all  his  imaginary  hardness  and 
indifference  have  been  hollow  and  false — a  wall  of  pride 
that  crumbles  at  a  touch,  and  the  old  love,  stronger  than 
life,  stronger  than  death,  fills  his  heart  still.  He  has  left 
her,  and — Edith  is  dying !  He  looks  at  nis  waich.  There 
is  an  Eastward-bound  train  in  half  an  hour — there  will  be 
barely  time  to  catch  it.  He  does  not  return  to  his  board- 
ing house — he  calls  a  passing  hack,  and  is  driven  to  the 
depot  just  in  time.  He  makes  no  pause  from  that  hour — 
he  travels  night  and  day.  What  is  business  ;  what  the  pros- 
jiects  of  all  his  future  life  ;  what  is  the  whole  world  now  ? 
Edith  is  dying. 

He  reaches  New  York  at  last.  It  seems  like  a  century 
since  that  telegram  came,  and  haggard  and  worn,  in  the 
twilight  of  the  autumn  day,  he  stands  at  last  in  his  mother's 
home. 

Trix  is  there — they  expect  him  to-night,  and  she  has 
waited  to  receive  him.  She  looks  in  his  face  once,  then 
turns  away  and  covers  her  own,  and  bursts  into  a  woman's 
tempest  of  tears. 

"  I — I  am  too  late,"  he  says  in  a  hoarse  sort  of  whisper. 

"  No,"  Trix  answers,  looking  up ;  ♦•  not  too  late.  She 
is  alive  still — I  can  say  no  more." 

"What  is  it?"  he  asks. 

"  It  is  almost  impossible  to  say.  Typhoid  fever,  one 
doctor  says,  and  cerebro  spinal  meningitis  says  the  other.  It 
doesn't  much  matter  what  it  is,  since  both  agree  in  this — 
that  she  is  dying." 


396 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


Her  sobs  breaks  forth  again.  He  sits  and  gazes  at  her 
like  a  stone. 

**  There  is  no  hope  ?  " 

"  While  there  is  hfe  there  is  hope."  But  it  is  in  a  very 
dreary  voice  that  Trix  repeats  this  aphorism  :  "  and — the 
worst  of  it  is,  she  doesn't  seem  to  care.  Charley,  I  believe 
she  wants  to  die,  is  glad  to  die.  She  seems  to  have  nothing 
to  care  for — nothing  to  live  for.  '  My  life  has  been  all  a  mis- 
take,' sTie  said  to  me  the  other  day.  '  I  have  gone  wrong 
from  first  to  last,  led  astray  by  my  vanity,  and  selfishness, 
and  ambition.  It  is  much  better  that  1  should  die,  and 
make  an  end  of  it  all.'  She  has  made  her  will,  Charley — 
she  made  it  in  the  first  days  of  her  illness,  and — she  has  left 
almost  everything  to  you." 

He  makes  no  reply.  He  sits  motionless  in  the  twilit  win- 
dow,  looking  down  at  the  noisy,  bustling  street. 

"  She  has  remembered  me  most  generously,"  Trix  goes 
softly  on  ;  "  poor,  darling  Edith  !  but  she  has  left  almost  all 
to  you.  *  It  would  have  been  an  insult  to  offer  anything  in 
my  lifetime,'  she  said  to  me  ;  '  but  the  wishes  of  the  dead  are 
sacred, — he  will  not  be  able  to  refuse  it  then.  And  tell  him 
not  to  grieve  for  me,  Trixy — I  never  made  him  anything 
but  trouble,  and  disappointment,  and  wretchedness.  I  am 
sorry — sorry  now,  and  my  last  wish  and  prayer  will  be  for 
the  happiness  of  his  life.'  When  she  is  delirious,  and  she 
mostly  is  as  night  draws  on,  she  calls  for  you  incessantly — 
asking  you  to  come  back — begging  you  to  forgive  her. 
That  is  why  I  sent." 

"  Does  she  know  you  sent  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  No — it  was  her  desire  you  should  not  be  told  until — 
until  all  was  over,"  Trix  answered  with  another  burst  of 
tears  ;  "  but  I  couldrit  do  that.  She  says  we  are  to  bury  her 
at  Sandypoint,  beside  her  mother — not  send  her  body  to 
England.  She  told  me,  when  she  was  dead,  to  tell  you  the 
story  of  her  separation  from  Sir  Victor.  Shall  I  tell  it  to 
you  now,  Charley  ?  " 

He  makes  a  motion  of  assent ;  and  Trix  begins,  in  a 
broken  voice,  and  tells  him  the  sad,  strange  story  of  the  two 
Sir  Victors,  father  and  son,  and  of  Edith's  life  from  her  wed- 
ding-day. The  twilight  deepens  into  darkness,  the  room  is 
wrapped  in  shadow  long  before  she  has  finished.     He  never 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


397 


Stirs,  he  never  speaks,  he  sits  and  listens  to  the  end.  Then 
there  is  a  ])ause,  and  out  of  the  gloom  he  speaks  at  last : 

'*  May  1  see  her,  and  when  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  you  come,  the  doctors  say  ;  they  refuse  her 
nothing  now,  and  they  think  your  presence  may  do  her  good, 
— if  anything  can  do  it.  Mother  is  with  her  and  Nellie ; 
Nellie  has  been  her  best  friend  and  nurse  ;  Nellie  has  never 
left  her,  and  Charley,"  hesitatingly,  for  something  in  his  man- 
ner awes  Trix,  "  I  believe  she  thinks  you  and  Nellie  are 
engaged." 

"  Stop  ! "  he  says  imperiously,  and  Trixy  rises  with  a  sigh 
and  puts  on  her  hat  and  shawl.  Five  minutes  later  they  are 
in  the  street,  on  their  way  to  Lady  Catheron's  hotel. 

One  of  the  medical  men  is  in  the  sick-room  when  Miss 
Stuart  enters  it,  and  she  tells  him  in  a  whisper  that  her 
brother  has  come,  and  is  wailing  without. 

His  patient  lies  very  low  to-night — delirious  at  times,  and 
sinking,  it  seems  to  him,  fast.  She  is  in  a  restless,  fevered 
sleep  at  present,  and  he  stands  looking  at  her  with  a  very 
sombre  look  on  his  professional  face.  In  spite  of  his  skill, 
and  he  is  very  skilful,  this  case  baffles  him.  The  patient's 
own  utter  indifference,  as  to  whether  she  lives  or  dies,  being 
one  of  the  hardest  things  he  has  to  combat.  If  she  only 
longed  for  life,  and  strove  to  recruit — if,  like  Mrs.  Dombey, 
she  would,  "only  make  an  effort."  But  she  will  not,  and 
the  flame  flickers,  and  flickers,  and  very  soon  will  go  out 
altogether. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  the  doctor  says.  "  He  can  do  no 
harm — he  may  possibly  do  some  good." 

"  Will  she  know  him  when  she  awakes  ?  "  Trix  whispers. 

He  nods  and  turns  away  to  where  Miss  Seton  stands  in 
the  distance,  and  Trix  goes  and  fetches  her  brother  in.  He 
advances  slowly,  almost  reluctantly  it  would  seem,  and  looks 
down  at  the  wan,  drawn,  thin  face  that  rests  there,  whiter 
than  the  pillows.  Great  Heaven  !  and  this — this  is  Edith  ! 
He  sinks  into  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  and  takes  her  wan, 
transparent  hand  in  both  his  own,  with  a  sort  of  groan.  The 
light  touch  awakes  her,  the  faint  eyelids  quiver,  the  large, 
dark  eyes  open  and  fix  on  his  face.  The  lips  flutter  breath- 
lessly apart.     ^'Charley  !  "  they  whisper  in  glad  surprise,  and 


398 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


over  the  deathlike  face  Ihore  flashes  for  a  second  an  elec- 
tric light  of  great  amaze  and  joy. 

"  Humph  !  "  says  the  doctor,  with  a  surprised  grunt ;  "  I 
thought  it  would  do  her  no  harm.  If  wc  leave  them  alone 
for  a  few  minutes,  my  dear  young  ladies,  it  will  do  us  no 
harm  either.  Mind,  my  young  gentleman,"  he  taps  Charley 
on  the  shoulder,  "  my  patient  is  not  to  excite  herself  talk- 
ing." 

They  softly  go  out.  It  would  appear  the  doctor  need  not 
have  warned  him;  they  don't  seem  inclined  to  talk.  She 
lies  and  looks  at  him,  delight  in  her  eyes,  and  draws  a  long, 
long  breath  of  great  content.  For  him,  he  holds  her  wasted 
hand  a  little  tighter,  and  lays  his  face  dowii  on  the  pillow, 
and  does  not  speak  a  word. 

So  the  minutes  pass. 

"  Charley,"  she  says  at  last,  in  a  faint,  little  whisper, 
"  what  a  surprise  this  is.  They  did  not  tell  me  you  were 
coming.     Who  sent  for  you  ?  when  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  You're  not  to  talk,  Edith,"  he  answers,  lifting  his  hag- 
gard face  for  a  moment — poor  Charley  !  *'  Trix  sent  for 
me."     Then  he  lays  it  down  again. 

"Foolish  boy!"  Edith  says  with  shining  eyes;  "I  do 
believe  you  are  crying.  You  don't  hate  me,  then,  after  all, 
Charley  ?  " 

•'  Hate  you  !  "  he  can  but  just  repeat. 

"  You  once  said  you  did,  you  know ;  and  I  deserved  it. 
But  I  have  not  been  happy,  Charley — I  have  been  punished 
as  I  merited.  Now  it  is  all  over,  and  it  is  better  so — 1  never 
was  of  any  use  in  the  world,  and  never  would  be.  You 
will  let  me  atone  a  little  for  the  past  in  the  only  way  I  can. 
Trix  will  tell  you.  And,  by  and  by,  when  you  are  quite 
happy,  and  she  is  your  wife — " 

.  The  faint  voice  breaks,  and  she   turns   her  face   away. 
Even  in  death  it  is  bitterer  than  death  to  give  him  up. 

He  lifts  his  head,  and  looks  at  her. 

"  When  she  is  my  wife  ?  when  who  is  my  wife  ? "  he 
asks. 

"  Nellie — you  know,"  she  whispers  ;  "  she  is  worthy  of 
you,  Charley — indeed  she  is,  and  I  never  was.  And  she 
loves  you,  and  will  make  you  hap — " 

"  Stop  ! "    he  says  suddenly ;  "  you  are   making  some 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


399 


stn-'Mge  mistake,  Edith.  Nellie  cares  for  me,  as  Trix  docs, 
anO  Trix  is  not  more  a  sister  to  me  than  Nellie.  For  the 
rest — do  you  remember  what  1  said  to  you  that  night  at 
Killarney?" 

Her  lips  tremble — her  eyes  watch  him,  her  weak  fingers 
clos'   tightly  over  his.     Remember  !  does  she  not  ? 

"  i  said — •  I  will  love  you  all  my  life  ! '  1  have  kept  my 
word,  and  mean  to  keep  it.  If  I  may  not  call  you  wife,  I 
will  never  call,  by  that  name,  any  other  woman.  No  one  in 
this  world  can  ever  be  to  me  again,  what  you  were  and 
are." 

There  is  another  pause,  but  the  dark,  uplifted  eyes  are 
radiant  now. 

"At  last  1  at  last  1"  she  breathes;  "when  it  is  too  late. 
Oh,  Charley  !  If  the  past  might  only  come  over  again,  how 
different  it  all  would  be.  1  think" — she  says  this  with  a 
weak  little  laugh,  that  reminds  him  of  the  Edith  of  old — "  I 
think  1  could  sleep  more  happily  even  in  my  grave — if 
'  Edith  Stuart '  were  carved  on  n)y  tombstone  I  " 

His  eyes  never  leave  her  face — they  light  up  in  their  dreary 
sadness  now  at  these  words. 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  Edith  ?"  he  says  bending  over  her  ; 
"living  or  dying,  would  it  make  you  any  happier  to  be  my 
wife?" 

He.-  eyes,  her  face,  answer  him.  "  But  it  is  too  late,"  the 
pale  lips  sigh. 

"  It  is  never  too  late,"  he  says  quietly ;  •*  we  will  be  mar- 
ried to-night." 

'' Charley  V 

"  Yon  are  not  to  talk,"  he  tells  her,  kissing  her  softly  and 
for  the  first  time ;  "  1  will  arrange  it  all.  I  will  go  for  a 
clergyman  I  know,  and  explain  everything.  Oh,  darling ! 
you  should  have  been  my  wife  long  ago — you  shall  be  my 
wife  at  last,  in  spite  of  dea:h  itself." 

Then  he  leaves  her,  and  goes  out.  And  Edith  closes  her 
eyes,  and  lies  still,  and  knows  that  never  in  all  the  years 
that  are  gone  has  such  perfect  bliss  been  hers  before.  In 
death,  at  least,  if  not  life,  she  will  be  Charley's  wife. 

He  tells  them  very  quietly,  very  resolutely — Ler  father 
who  is  there  from  Sandypoint,  his  mother,  sister,  Nellie,  the 
doctor. 


400 


THE  SECOND  BRIDAL. 


Tlicy  listen  in  wordless  wonder ;  but  what  can  they  say  ? 

"  Tiic  excitement  will  finish  her — mark  my  words,"  is  the 
doctor's  verdict ;  "  1  will  never  countenance  any  such  melo- 
dramatic proceeding." 

But  his  countenance  does  not  matter  it  seems.  The  laws 
of  the  Medes  were  not  more  fixed  than  this  marriage.  The 
clergyman  comes,  a  very  old  friend  of  the  family,  and 
Charley  explains  all  to  him.  He  listens  with  (iiiiet  gravity 
— in  his  experience  a  death-bed  marriage  is  not  at  all  an 
unprecedented  occurrence.  The  hour  fixed  is  ten,  and 
Trixy  and  Nellie  go  in  to  make  the  few  possible  prepara- 
tions. 

The  sick  girl  lifts  two  wistful  eyes  to  the  gentle  face  of 
Nellie  Seton.  It  is  very  pale,  but  she  stoops  and  kisses  her 
with  her  own  sweet  smile. 

"  You  will  live  now  for  his  sake,"  she  whispers  in  that 
kiss. 

They  decorate  the  room  and  the  bed  with  flowers,  they 
brush  away  the  dark  soft  hair,  they  array  her  in  a  dainty  em- 
broidered night-robe,  and  prop  her  up  with  [)illows.  There 
is  the  fever  fire  on  her  wan  cheeks,  the  fever  fire  in  her 
shining  eyes.  But  she  is  unutterably  iiappy — you  have  but 
to  look  into  her  face  to  see  that.  Death  is  forgotten  in  her 
new  bliss. 

The  bridegroom  comes  in,  pale  and  unsmiling — worn  and 
haggard  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  tell.  'I'rix,  weeping 
incessantly,  stands  near,  her  mother  and  Mr.  Darrell  are  at 
one  side  of  the  bed.  Nellie  is  bridesmaid.  What  a  strange, 
sad,  solemn  wedding  it  is  I  The  clergyman  takes  out  his 
book  and  begins — bride  and  bridegroom  clasp  hands,  her 
radiant  eyes  never  leave  his  face.  Her  faint  replies  llutter 
on  her  lips — there  is  an  indescribable  sadness  in  his.  The 
ring  is  on  her  finger — at  laft  she  is  what  she  should  have 
been  from  the  first — Charley's  wife. 

He  bends  forward  and  takes  her  in  his  arms.  With  all 
her  dying  strength  she  lifts  herself  to  his  embrace.  It  is  a 
last  expiring  effort — her  weak  clasp  relaxes,  there  is  one 
faint  gasp.  Her  head  falls  heavily  upon  his  breast — there  is 
a  despairing  cry  from  the  women,  cold  and  lifeless,  Cliarley 
Stuart  lays  his  bride  of  a  moment  back  among  the  pillows — 
whether  dead  or  in  a  dead  swoon  no  one  there  can  tell. 


THE  NIGHT. 


401 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE   NIGHT. 


JT  first  they  thought  her  dead — but  it  was  not  death. 
She  awoke  from  that  long,  death-like  swoon  as 
morning  broke—so  near  unto  death  that  it  seemed 
the  turning  of  a  hr\ir  might  weigh  down  the  scale. 
And  so  for  days  after  it  was — for  weary  miserable  days 
and  nights.  The  great  reaction  after  the  great  excitement 
had  come,  all  consciousness  left  her,  she  lay  white  and 
still,  scarcely  niovjng,  scarcely  breathing.  The  one  beloved 
voice  fell  as  powerless  on  her  dulled  ears  now  as  all  others, 
tho  dim,  almost  lifeless  eyes,  that  opened  at  rare  intervals, 
were  blank  to  the  whole  world.  She  lay  in  a  s[)ecies  of  stu- 
l)or,  ur  coma,  from  which  it  was  something  more  than  doubt- 
ful if  she  ever  would  awake.  The  few  s|)oonfuls  of  beef-tea 
and  brandy  and  water  she  took  they  forced  between  her 
clenciied  teeth,  and  in  that  darkened  room  of  the  great  hotel, 
strangely,  solemnly  quiet.  Life  and  Death  fought  their  sharp 
battle  over  her  unconscious  head. 

And  for  those  who  loved  her,  her  father,  her  friends,  and 
one  other,  nearer  and  dearer  than  fr.ther  or  friend,  how  went 
those  darkest  days  for  them  i  They  could  hardly  have  told 
— all  their  after  life  they  looked  back,  with  a  sick  shudder,  to 
that  week. 

For  Charley  Stuart  he  never  wants  to  look  back — never  to 
the  last  day  of  his  life  will  he  be  able  10  recall,  to  realize  the 
agony  of  those  six  days — days  that  changed  his  whole  nature 
— his  whole  life. 

They  watched  with  her  unceasingly— -death  might  come  at 
any  moment.  There  were  times  when  they  bent  above  her, 
holding  their  own  breath,  sure  that  the  faint  thread  had  al- 
ready snapped — times  when  they  held  a  mirror  to  her  lips  to 
be  sure  she  breathed  at  all.  For  her  new-made  husband,  he 
never  left  her  except  when  nature  succumbed  to  the  exhaus- 
tion of  ceaseless  vigil,  and  they  forced  him  away.  He  for- 
got to  eat  or  sleep,  he  sat  tearless  and  still  as  stone  by  the 
bedside,  almost  as  bloodless,  almost  as  wan  and  hollow  eyed 


402 


THE  NIGHT. 


as  the  (lying  bride  herself.  The  doctors  stood  gloomily  silent, 
their  skill  falling  powerless  here. 

"  She  needed  only  the  excitement  of  this  most  preposter- 
ous marriage  to  finish  her,"  one  of  them  growled ;  "  I  said 
so  at  the  time — I  say  so  now.  She  had  one  chance  for  life 
— perfect  quiet — and  that  destroyed  it." 

On  the  fourth  day,  a  letter  from  England,  in  a  woman's 
hand,  and  deeply  bordered  with  black,  arrived.  Edith,  in 
the  first  days  of  her  illness,  had  told  Trix  to  open  all  her  let- 
ters. She  would  have  passed  the  power  over  to  her  brother 
now,  but  he  waved  it  away  impatiently.  What  did  it  matter 
whom  it  was  from — what  it  contained — what  did  anything 
matter  now  ? 

His  haggard  eyes  went  silently  back  tq  the  marble  face 
lying  among  its  pillows,  so  awfully  still. 

Trixy  opened  and  read  it.  It  was  from  Inez  Catheron,  and 
announced  the  death  of  her  aunt,  the  Lady  Helena  Powyss. 


"  Her  end  was  perfect  peace,"  said  the  letter ;  "  and  in 
her  will,  she  has  left  her  large  fortune  divided  equally  be- 
tween you  and  me.  If  possible  it  would  be  well  for  you  to 
return  to  England  as  speedily  as  may  be.  If  wealth  can 
make  you  happy — and  I  hope  at  least  it  will  aid — my  dear- 
est Edith,  you  will  have  it.  For  me,  I  join  a  charitable  Sis- 
terhood here  in  London,  and  will  try  to  devote  the  remain- 
der of  my  life  to  the  relief  of  my  suffering  and  poor  fellow- 
creatures.  As  to  the  rest,  if  you  care  at  all  to  know,  my 
brother  reigns  at  Catheron  Royals  now  !  He  is,  in  all  re- 
spects, a  changed  man,  and  will  not,  I  think,  be  an  unworthy 
successor  of  him  who  is  gone.  His  wife  and  children  are  all 
that  can  be  desired. 

"  Farewell,  my  dear  cousin.  When  you  return  to  Lon- 
don come  to  the  enclosed  address,  and  see  me.  "No  one 
will  welcome  you  more  gladly  than 

"  Inez  Catheron." 


So  another  large  fortune  had  been  left  Edith — she  was  rich 
now  beyond  her  wildest  dreams.  Rich  !  And  yonder  she 
lay,  and  all  the  gold  of  earth,  powerless  to  add  a  second  to 
her  life.  What  a  satire  it  seemed.  Youth,  beauty,  and 
boundless  wealth  were  hers,  and  all  were  vain — vain  I 


THE  NIGHT. 


403 


The  seventh  night  brought  the  crisis. 

"  This  can  hold  out  no  longer,"  the  physician  said  ;  "be- 
fore morning  wo  will  know  the  end,  whether  it  is  to  be  life 
or  death." 

"Then — there  is  hope  yet?"  Trix  breathed,  with  clasped 
hands. 

He  looked  at  her  gloomily  and  turned  away,  the  lueaning- 
less  formula  on  his  lips  : 

"  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope." 

"  It  will  be  little  less  than  a  miracle  if  she  lives,  though," 
the  other  added  ;  "  and  the  days  of  miracles  are  over.  Hope 
if  you  like — but — " 

"  You  had  better  not  let:  him  sit  up  to-night,"  said  the  first 
l)hysician,  looking  compassionately  at  Charley;  "he  won't 
be  able  to  stand  it.  He  is  worn  out  now,  poor  fellow,  and 
looks  fit  for  a  sick-bed  himself." 

"  He  knows  it  is  the  crisis,"  Trixy  an.?wered  ;  "  he  won't  go." 

"  He  has  watched  the  last  two  nights,"  Miss  Seton,  inter- 
posed :  "  he  musi\^o,  doctor  ;  leave  me  an  opiate — I  will  ad- 
minister it.  If — if  the  worst  comes,  it  will  be  but  a  mo- 
ment's work  to  arouse  him." 

The  doctor  obeyed. 

"  I  will  return  at  day  dawn,"  he  said,  "  if  she  be  still  alive. 
If  not — send  me  word." 

The  twilight  was  falling.  Solemn  and  shadowy  it  crept 
into  the  sombre,  silent  room.  They  went  back  to  the  bed- 
side, pale  and  tearless  ;  they  had  wept,  it  seemed,  until  they 
could  weep  no  more.  This  last  night  the  two  girls  were 
to  watch  alone. 

She  lay  before  them.  Dead  and  in  her  shroud  she  would 
never  look  more  awfully  death-like  than  now.  He  sat  be- 
side her — ah,  poor  Charley !  in  a  sort  of  dull  stupor  of 
misery,  utterly  worn  out.  The  sharp  pain  seemed  over — the 
long,  dark  watches,  when  his  passionate  prayers  had  as- 
cended for  that  dear  life,  wild  and  rebellious  it  may  be,  when 
he  had  wrestled  with  an  agony  more  bitter  than  death,  had 
left  their  impress  on  his  life  forever.  He  could  not  let  her 
go — he  could  not  I  "  O  God ! "  was  the  ceaseless  cry  of 
his  soul,  "  have  mercy — spare  !  " 

NeUie  Seton's  cool,  soft  hands  fell  lightly  on  his  head — 
Nellie's  soft,  gentle  voice  spoke  : 


404 


THE  N^GHT. 


He 


you 


the 


"  Charley,  you  are  to  leave  us  for  a  little,  and  He  down. 
You  must  have  some  rest,  be  it  ever  so  short  ;  and  you  have 
had  nothing  to  eat,  I  believe  all  day ;  you  will  let  me  pre- 
pare something,  and  take  it,  and  go  to  your  room." 

She  spoke  to  him  coaxingly,  almost  as  she  might  to  a 
child.  He  lifted  his  eyes,  full  of  dull,  infinite  misery,  to 
hers. 

"  To-night  ?  "  he  answered  :  "  the  last  night !  I  will  not 
go." 

"  Only  for  an  hour  then,"  she  pleaded  ;  "  there  will  be  no 
change.     For  my  sake,  Charley  !  " 

All  her  goodness,  all  her  patience,  came  back  to  him. 
pressed  her  hand  in  his  own  gratefully,  and  arose. 

"  For  your  sake,  Nellie,  then — for  no  other.     But 
promise  to  call  me  if  there  is  the  slightest  change  ?  " 

"  I  promise.     Drink  this  and  go." 

She  gave  him  a  glass  of  mulled  wine,  containing 
opiate.  He  drank  it  and  left  the  room.  They  listened 
breathlessly  until  they  heard  his  door,  further  down  the  pas- 
sage, open  and  shut — then  both  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  Trix  said  ;  "  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  him 
here  to-night.  Nellie,  if  she  dies  it  will  kill  him — just 
that." 

The  girl's  lips  quivered.  What  Charley  had  been  to  her — 
how  wholly  her  great,  generous,  loving  heart  had  gone  out  to 
him,  not  even  Trix  ever  knew.  The  dream  of  her  life's  best 
bliss  was  at  an  end  forever.  Whether  Edith  Stuart  lived  or 
died,  no  other  woman  would  ever  take  her  place  in  his  lieart. 

The  hours  of  the  night  wore  on.  Oh  !  those  solemn 
night  watches  by  the  dying  bed  of  those  we  love.  The  faint 
lamp  flickers,  deepest  stillness  reigns,  and  on  his  bed,  dressed 
as  he  was,  Charley  lies  deeply,  dreamlessly  asleep. 

It  was  broad  day  when  he  awoke — the  dawn  of  a  cloudless 
November  day.  He  sat  up  in  bed  suddenly,  for  a  moment, 
bewildered,  and  stared  before  him.  Only  for  a  moment — 
then  he  remembered  all.  The  night  had  passed,  the  morn- 
ing come.  They  had  let  him  sleep — it  seemed  he  could 
sleep  while  she  lay  dying  so  near.  Dying  !  Who  was  to 
tell  him  that  in  yonder  distant  room  Edith  was  not  lying 
dead.  He  rose  uj),  reeling  like  a  drunken  man,  and  made 
for  the  door.     He  opened  it,  and  went  out,  down  the  pas- 


THE  MORNING. 


405 


page.  It  was  entirely  deserted,  the  great  household  were  not 
yet  astir.  Profound  stillness  reigned.  Through  the  wi'.i- 
(Idws  he  could  see  the  bright  morning  sky,  all  Hushed,  red 
,nul  golden  with  the  first  radiance  of  the  rising  sun.  And  in 
that  room  there  what  lay — death  or  life  ? 

He  stood  suddenly  still,  and  looked  at  the  closed  door. 
Me  stood  there  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  unable  to 
advance  another  step. 

It  opened  abruptly — quickly  but  noiselessly,  and  Nellie 
Seton's  pale,  tired  face  looked  out.  At  sight  of  him  she 
came  forward — he  asked  no  questions — his  eyes  looked  at 
her  full  of  a  dumb  agony  of  questioning  she  never  forgot. 

"Charley  !"  she  exclaimed,  coming  nearer. 

The  first  ray  of  the  rising  sun  streaming  through  the  win- 
dows fell  full  upon  her  pale  face,  and  it  was  as  the  face  of  an 
angel. 

"  Charley  ! "  she  repeated,  with  a  great  tearless  sob,  hold- 
ing out  both  hands ;  "  Oh,  bless  God  1  the  doctor  says  we 
may — hope  !  " 

He  had  braced  himself  to  hear  the  worst — not  this.  He 
made  one  step  forward  and  fell  at  her  feet  like  a  stone. 


CHAPTER  XH. 


THE   MORNING. 


|HEY  might  hope  ?     The  night  had  passed,  the  morn- 
ing had  come,  and  she  still  lived. 

You  would  hardly  have  thought  so  to  look  at  her 
as  she  lay,  deathly  white,  deathly  still.  But  as  the 
day  broke  she  had  awakened  from  a  long  sleep,  the  most 
natural  and  refreshing  she  had  known  for  weeks,  and  looked 
u|)  into  the  pale  anxious  face  of  Trix  with  the  faint  shadow 
(ila  smile.  Then  the  eyelids  swayed  and  closed  in  sleep  once 
more,  but  she  had  recognized  Trix  for  the  first  time  in  days 
— the  crisis  was  over  and  hope  had  come. 

riiey  would  not  let  her  sec   him.     Only  while  she  slept 


4o6 


THE  MORNING. 


would  they  allow  him  now  to  enter  her  room.  But  it  was 
easily  borne — Edith  was  not  to  die,  and  Heaven  and  his  own 
grateful  happy  heart  only  knew  how  infinitely  blessed  he  was 
in  that  knowledge.  After  the  long  bitter  night — after  the 
darkness  and  the  pain,  light  and  morning  had  conie.  Edith 
would  live — all  was  said  in  that. 

"There  are  some  remedies  that  are  either  kill  or  cure  in 
their  action,"  the  old  doctor  said,  giving  Charley  a  facetious 
poke.  "  Your  marriage  was  one  of  them,  young  man.  / 
thought  it  was  Kill — it  turns  out  it  was  Cure." 

For  many  days  no  memory  of  the  past  returned  to  her, 
her  existence  was  as  the  existence  of  anew-born  babe,  spent 
alternately  in  taking  food  and  sleep.  Food  she  took  with 
eager  avidity  after  her  long  starvation,  and  then  sank  back 
again  into  profound,  refreshing  slumber. 

'•  Let  her  sleep,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  complacent  nod  ; 
"the  more  the  better.  It's  Nature's  way  of  repairing  dam- 
ages." 

There  came  a  day  at  last  when  thought  and  recollection 
began  to  struggle  back — when  she  had  strength  to  lie  awake 
and  think.  More  than  once  Trix  caught  the  dark  eyes  fixed 
in  silent  wistfulness  upon  her — a  question  in  them  her  lips 
would  not  ask.  But  Miss  Stuart  guessed  it,  and  one  day 
spoke  : 

"What  is  it,  Dithy?"  she  said;  "you  look  as  if  you 
wanted  to  say  something,  you  know." 

"  How — how  long  have  I  been  sick  ?"  was  Edith's  ques- 
tion. 

"  Nearly  five  weeks,  and  an  awful  life  you've  led  us,  I  can 
tell  you  !  Look  at  me — worn  to  skin  and  bone.  What  do 
you  suppose  you  will  have  to  say  for  yourself  when  Angus 
comes  ?  " 

Edith  smiled  faintly,  but  her  eyes  still  kept  their  wistful 
look. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  delirious  part  of  the  time,  Trixy  ?  " 

"  Stark,  staring  crazy — raving  like  a  lunatic  at  full  moon  ! 
But  you  needn't  look  so  concerned  about  it — we've  changed 
all  that.     You'll  do  now." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  it  with  a  sigh  ;  "you  have  all  been  very 
kind.     I  suppose  it's  only  a  fancy  of  the  fever  after  all." 

"What?" 


THE  MORNING. 


407 


don't 


laugh 


at  me,  but  I  thought  Charley 
"  the  most  natural  thing 


-a  question  trembled 


"  I— Tnxy  ! 
was  here." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  responded  Trix  ; 
in  life.     He  is  here." 

Her  eyes  lighted — her  lips  parted 
upon  iheni,  but  she  hesitated. 

"Go  on,"  said  Miss  Stuart,  enjoying  it  all;  "there's 
something  else  on  your  mind.  Speak  up,  Edie  !  don't  be 
ashamed  of  yourself." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  laugh  this  time,  Trixy — I  know  it 
is  only  a  dream,  but  I  thought  Charley  and  I  were — " 

"Yes,"  said  Trixy  ;  "  were— what  ?  " 

"Married,  then!"  with  a  faint  little  laugh.  "Don't  tell 
him,  please,  but  it  seems — it  seems  so  real,  I  had  to  tell 
you." 

She  turned  her  face  away.  And  Trixy,  with  suspicious 
dimness  in  her  eyes,  stooped  down  and  kissed  that  thin, 
wan  face. 

"  You  poor  little  Dithy  !  "  she  said  ;  "  you  do  like  Char- 
ley, don't  you  ?  no,  it's  not  a  dream — you  were  married 
nearly  a  fortnight  ago.  The  hope  of  my  life  is  realized — 
you  are  my  sister,  and  Charley's  wife  !  " 

There  was  a  little  panting  cry — then  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  lay  still. 

"  He  is  outside,"  went  on  Trix  ;  "  you  don't  know  what 
a  good  boy  he  has  been — so  patient — and  all  that.  He  de- 
serves some  reward.  I  think  if  you  had  died  he  would  have 
died  too — Lord  Lovel  and  Lady  Nancy,  over  again.  Not 
that  I  much  believe  in  broken  hearts  where  men  are  con- 
cerned, either,"  pursued  Trix,  growing  cynical ;  "  but  this 
seems  an  exceptional  case.  He's  awfully  fond  of  you,  Dithy  ; 
'pon  my  word  he  is.  I  only  hope  Angus  may  go  off  in  a 
dead  faint  the  first  time  I'm  sick  and  get  better,  as  he 
did  the  other  day.  We  haven't  let  him  in  much  lately,  for 
fear  of  agitating  you,  but  I  think,"  says  Trixy,  with  twink- 
ling eyes,  "  you  could  stand  it  now — couldn't  you,  Mrs. 
Stuart?" 

She  did  not  wait  for  a  reply — she  went  out  and  hunted  up 
Charley.  He  was  smoking  downstairs,  and  trying  to  read 
the  morning  paper. 

"  Your  wife  wants  you,"  said  Miss  Stuart  brusquely ;  "go  I 


4o8 


THE  MORNING. 


only  mind  this — don't  stay  too  long,  and  don't  talk  too 
niiich." 

He  started  to  his  feet — away  went  Tribune  and  cigar, 
and  up  the  stairs  sprang  Charley — half  a  dozen  at  a  time. 

And  then  Miss  Stuart  sits  down,  throws  her  handkerchief 
over  her  face,  and  for  the  next  five  minutes  indulges  in  the 
exclusively  feminine  luxury  of  a  real  good  cry. 

sic  £l£  sic  9k  Sif  ik  df  ifa  ii* 

After  that  Mrs.  Charles  Stuart's  recovery  was  perfectly 
magical  in  its  rapidity.  Youth  and  splendid  vitality,  no 
doubt,  had  something  to  do  with  it,  but  I  think  the  fact  that 
she  was  Mrs.  Charles  Stuart  had  more  to  do  still. 

There  came  a  day,  when  propped  up  with  pillows,  she 
could  sit  erect,  and  talk,  and  be  talked  to  as  much  as  she 
chose,  when  blinds  were  pulled  up,  and  sunshine  poured  in  ; 
and  no  sunshine  that  ever  shone  was  half  so  bright  as  her 
happy  face.  There  came  still  another  day,  when  robed  in  a 
pretty  pink  morning-dress,  Charley  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and 
carried  her  to  the  arm-chair  by  the  window,  whence  she 
could  look  down  on  the  bright,  busy  city  street,  whilst  he  sat 
at  her  feet  and  talked.  Talked !  who  is  to  tell  of  what  ? 
"Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought — two  hearts  that  beat 
as  one,"  generally  find  enough  to  say  for  themselves,  1  no- 
tice, and  require  the  aid  of  no  outsiders. 

And  there  came  still  another  day — a  fortnight  after,  when 
looking  pale  and  sweet,  in  a  dark-gray  travelling  suit  and 
hat,  Mrs.  Charles  Stuart,  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  said 
good-by  to  her  friends,  and  started  on  her  bridal  tour.  They 
were  to  spend  the  next  three  weeks  South,  and  then  return 
for  Trixy's  wedding  at  Christmas. 

Christmas  came  ;  merry  Christmas,  sparkling  with  snow 
and  sunshine,  as  Christmas  ever  should  sparkle,  and  bring- 
ing that  gallant  ex-officer  of  Scotch  Grays,  Captain  Angus 
Hammond — captain  no  longer — plain  Mr.  Hammond,  done 
with  drilling  and  duty,  and  getting  the  route  forever,  going  in 
for  quiet,  country  life  in  bonnie  Scotland,  with  Miss  Beatrix 
Stuart  for  aider  and  abettor. 

Charley  and  his  wife  came  to  New  York  for  the  wedding. 
They  had  told  Mr.  Hammond  how  ill  Edith  had  been,  but 
the  young  Scotchman,  as  he  pulled  his  ginger  whiskers  and 
stared  in  her  radiant,  blooming  face,  found  it  difficult  indeed 


THE  MORNING. 


409 


to  realize.  She  had  been  a  pretty  girl — a  handsome  woman 
— happiness  had  made  her  more — slie  was  lovely  now.  For 
Charley — outwardly  all  his  easy  insouciance  had  returned — 
he  submitted  to  be  idolized  and  made  much  of  by  his  wife, 
after  the  calm  fashion  of  lordly  man.  But  you  had  only  to 
see  him  look  once  into  her  beautiful,  laughing  face,  to  knew 
how  passionately  she  was  beloved. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Angus  Hammond  had  a  splendid  wedding ; 
and  to  say  our  Trixy  looked  charming  would  be  doing  her 
no  sort  of  justice.  And  again  Miss  Seton  was  first  brides- 
maid, and  Mrs.  Stuart,  in  lavender  silk,  sniffed  behind  a 
fifty  dollar  pocket  handkerchief,  as  in  duty  bound.  They 
departed  immediately  after  the  ceremony  for  Scotland  and  a 
Continental  tour — that  very  tour  which,  as  you  know,  Trixy 
was  cheated  so  cruelly  out  of  three  years  before. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart  went  back  South  to  finish  the  win- 
ter and  the  honeymoon  among  the  glades  of  Florida,  and 
"  do,"  as  Charley  said,  "  Love  among  the  Roses."  Mr. 
r3arrell  returned  to  Sandypoint.  Mrs.  Stuart,  senior,  took 
up  her  abode  with  Nellie  Seton,  pending  such  time  as  her 
children  should  get  over  the  first  delirium  of  matrimonial 
bliss  and  settle  quietly  down  to  housekeeping.  After  that  it 
was  fixed  that  she  was  to  divide  her  time  equally  between 
them,  six  months  with  each.  Ciurley  and  his  wife  would 
make  England  their  home  ;  Edith's  ample  fortune  lay  there, 
and  both  loved  the  fair  old  land. 

In  May  they  sailed  for  England.  They  would  spend  the 
whole  of  the  summer  in  Continental  travelling — the  pleasant 
rambling  life  suited  them  well.  But  they  went  down  to 
Cheshire  first  ;  and  one  soft  May  afternoon  stood  side  by 
side  in  the  old  Gothic  church  where  the  Catherons  for  gener- 
ations had  been  buried.  The  mellow  light  came  softly 
through  the  painted  windows — up  in  the  organ  loft,  a  young 
girl  sat  playing  to  herself  soft,  sweet,  solemn  melodies. 
And  both  hearts  bowed  down  in  tender  sadness  as  they 
stood  before  one  tomb,  the  last  erected  within  those  wails, 
that  of  Sir  Victor  Catheron.  Edith  pulled  her  veil  over  her 
face — the  only  tears  that  had  filled  her  eyes  since  her  second 
wedding-day  falling  quietly  now. 

There  were  many  remembrances  of  the  dead  man.  A 
beautiful  memorial  window,  a  soml  re  hatchment,  and  a  mon- 
18 


410 


THE  MORNING. 


ument  of  snow-white  marble.  It  was  very  simple-it  repre- 
sented only  a  broken  shaft,  and  beneath  m  gold  letters  this 
inscription  : 

Sacred  to  the  Memory  of 

SIR  VICTOR  CATHERON,  of  Catheron  Royals,  Bart. 

Died  Oct.  3,  1867,  in  the  24th  year  of  his  age. 

*'-His  sun  set  while  it  was  yet  day.** 


THE  END. 


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50  I  o.  V  KKUK  I'Ai'j  IS. — 4  vuls.  in  1...  a  00 
50  ;  (.HHi.sT.MASiioi.LV-Marinn  Harland  i  50 
50  i  DKi'.AM  Ml  SIC. — K.  k.  M.irvin  ..  i  50 
50  ;  I-OKMS.  —  r.y  I,.  G.  'I'lnMiias I    50 


!  I  1  II'LH  WANUI'.HI.KS.  — lllilslr.iteil.. 
GHNKSis  i)iscLosKi>. — T.  A.  iJaviex 
co.MMoixjHtt  rollinoi'I.n's  log.... 

IlKA/l'N  GATHS. — A  jiivenilc 

AN  I  IDOTK  TO  C.AIKS    AJAR       85  CtS 

1  llli  Kl'SSIAN  BALL  (jKll>er) 25  CtS 

Tllli  SNOHLACK  HALL    do       25  CtS 

i)iAi-Ni;ss.— Hr.  r..  I!.  I.ii^hlhill. ..    i  oo 

A  IKioK  ABOUT    LAWMCRS a   00 

A  IlilDK  ABOUT    IMjCTiiKS a  OO 

!;(jiiiu)U  I'Ai'ERS. — John  Phfcnix  ..    i  50 


VICTOR  lU  GO.  —  llislifc a  00 

BF.AUTV  IS    roWKK I    50 

WOMAN,  I.OVK,   AND  .MAKUIAdK  .     ..     I    ;0 

\VK:KKui:sr  woman  in  New  Vork.  .25  its 
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iiKCiNA, — I'ocnis  !))•  Kliza  Cnigcr,,  i  50 
wioow'si'RKiGiNS. — Widow  IJcdott    i  75 


IfllMccilnncoua    Novelm. 


A  CHARMING  WIDOW.— Macillioid..  $1    73 

THUP.  TO  IIIM  EVKR.  —  liy  K.  \V.  R.  I    50 

I  III:  KoiuiiviNi;  KISS. — I'.y  M.  lx)lh.  i  75 

LovAi,  UN  10  uj:ath I  75 

BKSSIK  WII.MKHIO.N.— WeStCOtt.  ...  I    75 

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EU.MLNl)  DAWN. — l!y  Isaveiiswood.  i  50 

cachrt. — .Mrs.  M.  J.  K.  Haniilti  n,  i  ;'j  \ 

MAUK  oinmKsl.ici'.VK.-J.S.Saiizade  i  751 

KKKNANLX)  DP.  Li:,M(is.— ('.  (".ayarce  2  00! 

CT:o\vn  JI'.WKLS.— Mrs.  Moffat i   75 

^  LOST  LII-K. — Hy  Kiiiily  Mocire. ..  i  50 

AVKiiV  Cii.iiiUN,  — Orjilieus  C.  Kerr.  2  00 

THK  CI.OVKN  FOOT. —  Do.  .1    50 

ROMANCE  OF  KAILUOAD.— Smith.  .  .  1    50 


HOIll'.RT  t;KKATIIOl!SK. — J.  F.  Swift  $2   OO 

FAisi  ISA.— I'ruiM  the  Cicrman. .. .    i  50 

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tiisrAV  AixiLF. — rriiiii  the  .Swedish    i  5c 

AOKIFT  WITH  A  VKNCKANCK    \y 

•■■•  iiKoAinvAV. — liy  lOlcanur  Kirk,    i   50 

Mttil'Al.BAN I    75 

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c:.AU!)i'.  OUHUX. —  I'.y  Victor  I|m>;o,    i  50 
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MV  sou  ITII'.KN   FKIKNDS.       1  )o.  .     I 

DOWN   IN  IINNKSSER.  Do.  .     I 


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NBCKORS  IN  NKGROLAND                           Do.        Uo.        l)o.   (paper  coveri) . .  100 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


A  IVcw  E<lition. 

Ainorip  the  numerous  editions  of  llic  works  of  iliis  gieatest  of  En(j- 
ll<h  Novelists,  there  has  not  been  until  now ^w^-  that  entirely  satisfies  the 

puhlic  demand Without  cxcc]Hir)n,  tliey  each  have  some 

strong  <lisiinctive  objection,  .  .  ,  cither  the  shape  and  dimensionn 
of  the  volumes  arc  unhandy — or,  the  type  is  small  and  indistinct  or, 
the  paper  is  thin  and  poor — or,  tlie  illustrations  [if  they  have  any]  are 
unsatisfactory — or,  the  binding  is  bad — or,  the  price  is  too  iii^^K 

A  new  edition  is  no7t>,  however,  j  ublished  by  G.  W.  Carleton  &  Co. 
of  New  York,  which,  it  is  believccl,  will,  in  every  res])ect,  completely 
satisfy  the  popular  demand.     .     .     ,     It  is  known  as 

'<€url<!toii'H  \ew  IlliiMtrtUvd  Edillon.'' 

The  size  and  form  is  most  convenient  for  holding,  .  ,  the  type  is 
entirely  new,  and  of  a  clear  and  o]>cn  character  tliat  has  received  the 
approval  of  the  reading;  community  in  other  popular  works. 

The  illustrations  are  by  the  orij^inal  artists  chosen  by  Charles 
Dickens  himself  .  .  .  and  the  paiicr,  printing,  and  buuling  are 
of  the  most  attractive  and  substantial  character. 

Th.'  publication  of  this  beautiful  new  edition  was  commenced  in 
Ai)ril,  1873,  ami  will  be  completed  in  20  volumes — one  novel  each 
month — at   the  extremely  reasonable  price  of  $1.50  per  volume,  as 

follows : — 


I — THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 
2 — 'H.IVEK  TWIST. 
3 — DAVID  COIM'F.RKIEI.D. 
4— r.KEAT  EXPECTATIONS. 
S — DOMBEY  AND  SON. 
6 — HARNAIIY  RLDOE. 
7— NICHOLAS  NICKJ.EBY 
S — OLD  CDRIOSITY  SHOP. 
9— KI.I'.AK  HOl'SE. 
10      LIl TI.E  UORRIT. 


1 1 — MARTIN  CHU7.ZLEWIT. 

12 — OUR  MUTI'Al,  IRIEND. 

13 — TAI.E  OK  TWO  CITIES. 

14 — ClIRIS'fMAS  nOOKS. 

15 — SKETCHES  BY  *' liOZ." 

16 — HARD  TIMES,  ETC. 

17 — PICTURES  OE  ITALY,   ETC. 

18 — U.NCOMMEKCIAI,  TRAVELLER. 

19 — EDWI.^"  DKOdD,  ETC. 

20 — ENGLAND  and  CATALOOUE. 


Being  issued,  month  by  month,  at  so  reasonable  a  price,  those  who 
d{i;in  l)y  subscribing  for  this  work,  will  ini|ierccptibly  soon  find  them- 
iclvL's  fortunate  )wners  of  an  entire  set  of  this  dest  eJilion  of  Dicktnf 
Works,  almost  without  having  paid  for  it. 

K  Prospectus  furnishing  specimen  of  type,  sizefl-pagc,  and  illustra- 
lirns,  will  be  sent  to  any  one  frte  on  application — and  siiecimen  copies 
of  the  bound  Iwoks  will  l/e  forwarded  by  mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt 
of  price,  $1.50,  by 

G.  W.  Carlkton  &  Co.,  Publishers, 

MadLion  Square,  New  York. 


THREE    VALUABLE    BOOKS, 

All  BeaatifuUy  Pnnted  and  Elegantly  Bound. 
« 

I.— Tlic  Art  or  ConversatioK, 

with  Dltvctijni  for  Bclf-Culture.  An  admirably  conceived  and  entertaining 
warlr — wnHiblp,  InRtructivo,  ond  fiill  of  BU(rg<^ionH  valiinlile  to  cvrr;  ons  who 
deiiircs  to  be  either  a  good  talker  or  llMener,  or  who  wlhhcs  to  api'car  to  adran- 
tatre  in  Rood  society.  Evory  younif  and  CTcn  old  iwrson  HhouM  rt'ad  it,  Rtudy  it 
over  and  over  attnin,  and  foUuw  those  hints  in  It  which  lead  them  to  briNik  up 
bad  hHbitnand  cultivate  Kood  onca.  *«*  Trice  $1.5U.  Among  the  contentM  will 
Im>  found  chapters  upon — 


Attention  in  Convebsation.— Sat- 
IHE.— Puns.— Sakc  ABM.—  Teasino.— 
Censviie.  —  Fault  Fi.fDiNo.—  Eoot- 

MM. — I'OL^TENESS. — COMPLIMENTS. — 
STORIE8.-ANEriK)TE8.-QlE8TIONI!ia. 
-LlUERTIES.-lMPCnENCE.-STARINO. 
— DISAOBEEABLB      bUBJEOTB.  —  tiElr 


PISHNERS. — AnaUMENT.— 8Acniric««. 

—Silent     rEoriK.— Dinnkb    Co»- 

VEIWATION.— TiMIDlrT.— iTSCnBK. — 

MontaiTT. — Correct     Lanoiiacjk. — 

SELF-INBTBIOTION.— Ml8CELl.AlIE0tJ« 
KNOWLEOOB.— LA.NUUAOEa. 


II.— The  Habits  of  Good   Soclcl]-. 

A  Handbook  for  Ladlen  and  Oentlonion.  With  thmiKhtii,  hintH,  and  aneodotM 
conoerning  social  observances,  nice  points  of  tiiRtc  and  i;(io<l  nianncrH,  and  the 
art  of  nUkUni;  onenelf  nKreeiible.  The  whole  iiit('rs|)orKcd  wit  liunioronH  illus- 
trationa  of  social  prcdicainentH,  rrniarkR  on  faaliion,  etc.  *,*  Price  fl.75. 
Among  thaoontents  will  be  found  chapters  upon — 


GentlevcVs  Preface. 

Ladies'  Pbepace. — Fa8hiomb. 

Thoudhtb  on  Society. 

Good  Society.— Had  Sooictt. 

The  OnEBSiNo  Room. 

The  TiADlEs'  Toilet. — Drebb. 

Feminine  Accomplibumentb. 

Mannkrband  IIabitb. 

Plbi.ic  and  Private  Etiquette. 

Married  and  UNMABRiBn  Ladies. 

Do  DO    Gentlemen. 

Calling  Etiquette.— Cards. 
Visitino  Etiquette.— Dinkeiis. 
Dinner  Parties. 


Ladies  at  Dinner. 
Dinner  Hadits.— Carvino. 
Mannkbs  at  Supper. — Rallb. 
Morning  Parties.- Picnics. 
EvKNiNo  Parties.— Dances. 
Private  Theatricals. 

IlECKPTlONS.  — ENOAO  EMENTB. 

JIarhi/ge  Ceremonies 
Invitations.— Dresses. 

IiHIl>E.SMAII)!<.— I'HKHENTS, 

Travelling  Etiquette. 
PuiiLio  Promenade. 
Country  Visits.- City  Visitb. 


III.— Arts  of  Writing,  Reading,  and  Spcnklnff. 

An  exceedingly  tasclnatinir  work  for  tcarhinf?  not  only  the  beginner,  but  for 
perfecting  every  one  in  these  three  most  doRirable  acctimplinhmcntii.  For  youth 
this  book  "(both  interePtinR  and  valuable;  and  roradullR,  whether  profesBionally 
or  socially  It  Is  a  book  that  they  cannot  disiionso  with.  *»♦  Price  ji.60.  Aui>.ng 
tb"!  contcnn  will  be  found  chnpterf  Hi)on — 
Reading  b  TniNKiNO.— Lanouaoe.—  Sat.— What  not  to  Sat.— How  to 


Bkqin.- Caotions.-Delivert.  -Writ- 
ing A  Speech.— First  Lenkons.- Pub- 
lic Speaking.— Delivery.  Action. 
Oratory  of  the  I'ulpit.-  Composi- 
TtoN.— TuR  Bar.— Ueadinii  of  Wit  tt 
Humor.— The  Platfobm.— CosBTBUO- 
TiON  OF  A  Speech. 


Words,  Sen '•ENC'Es.  ii  Construction. 
What  to  .\  vein.— Letter  Writing.— 
Pronunc  \tios.— Exprkhsion.— Tone 
Religiocb  Headings.— The  Bidle.- 
Prayeks.-Duamatic  Readings,— The 
Actor  ii  Rkadf-r.— Foiindatio.vs  fob 

C BATOR r     AND    SPEAKING. — WHAT    TO 

7'A«»e  teortt  ar*  the  most  perfect  of  their  Unit  ever  published ;  freth,  tenttbU 
jood-huinorea.  enterlaininff,  and  readable.  Every  person  of  tatu  t/u>uld  po*- 
Mw  them,  and  cannot  be  olherxctne  than  delighted  with  them. 

Plf"  A  beautiful  new  minature  edition  of  these  very  popular  knoks  has  jnst 
been  publlflh(!d,  entitled  "The  Diamond  Edition,"  three  Utile  volumes,  ele- 
gantly printe<l  on  tinted  |>a|>er,  iind  hi^ndH<iinely  bound  in  a  box.     Piioe  99.00, 

•^*  Thcie  books  are  all  Rent  by  mall,  postage  free,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

Q.  W.  CABLETON  Si  CO.,  FullisheTS,  Madison  Sqaare,  New  York. 


1\ 


Mary  J.  Holmes*  Works. 


I.— TEMPEST  AND  SUNSHINE.   ' 
•.—ENGLISH  ORPHANS. 
j.-HOMESTEAD  ON  HILLSIDE. 
♦.—•LENA  RIVERS. 
S— MEADOW  HROOK. 
6.— DORA  DEANE. 
7.— COUSIN  MAUDE. 


'  8.— MARIAN  GRAY. 
9.— DARKNESS  and  DAYlIGirt. 
10.— HUGH   WORTHINGTCJf. 
II. -CAMERON  PRIDE. 
«.— ROSE  MATHER. 
13— ETHELYN'S  MISTAKE. 
14.— MILLHANK. 
,i5.-EDNA  URO\VNING. 


OPINIONS  OF  THE    PRESS. 

"Mrs.  Holmes'  stories  are  universally  read.  Her  admirers  are  numberless. 
She  is  in  mary  respects  with6ut  a  rival  in  the  world  of  fiction.  Her  characters 
are  :ilway5  iife-like,  and  she  makes  them  talk  and  act  like  human  beings,  subject 
to  the  same  emotions,  swayed  by  the  same  passions,  and  actuated  by  the  same 
motives  which  are  common  among  men  and  women  of  every  day  existence.  Mrs. 
Holmes  is  very  happy  in  portraying  domestic  life.  Old  and  yoiuig  peruse  her 
stories  with  great  delight,  for  the  writes  in  a  style  that  all  can  comprehead." — 
AVtw  i'fri  W'tekly, 

"Mrs.  Holmes*  stories  are  all  of  a  domestic  character,  and  their  interest, 
thwefore,  is  not  so  intense  as  if  they  were  mere  highly  seasoned  with  sensati'onal- 
isrn,  but  it  is  of  a  healthy  and  abiding  character.  Almost  any  new  book  which  her 
publisher  might  choose  to  announce  from  her  pen  would  get  an  immediate  and 
general  reading.  The  interest  in  her  tales  begins  at  once,  and  is  muintained  to 
the  close.  Her  sentiments  are  so  sound,  her  sympathies  so  warm  and  re.ndy, 
and  her  knowledge  of  manners,  character,  and  the  varied  incidents  of  ordinary 
lift:  is  so  thorough,  that  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  wrife  any  other  than  an 
excellent  tale  if  she  were  to  try  it." — Boston  Banner, 

"  Mrs,  Holmes  it  very  amusing ;  has  a  quick  and  true  sense  of  humor,  a 
sympathetic  tone,  a  perception  of  character,  and  a  familirr,  attracti\e  style, 
]ilcasantly  adapted  to  the  comprehension  and  the  t'lste  of  that  large  class  of 
American  readers  for  whom  fashionable  novels  and  ideal  fantasies  have  no 
charm." — Htnry  T,  Tuckerman, 


tW"^  The  volumet  are  all  handsomely  printed  anJ  bound  in  cloth, — sold 
•«•! /where,  and  sent  by  xaa!A,  Jiottagt  free,  on  receipt  of  price  [fi.so  each],  by 

O.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Madison  Square,  Nero  York. 


".   : 


